


What Are The Odds

by erelis



Series: Dreams and Fables [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Avvar, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 21:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 100,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13796691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erelis/pseuds/erelis
Summary: Dorian and Cullen join the Inquisition. No one, as it turns out, is prepared for this.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Just like _Brave New World_ , this story is complete. Because of its length, I'll be posting it in four parts.

“That’s it, is it?”

From the top of a buff lined with fir trees, Dorian stood gazing out at the rather minuscule collection of buildings spread haphazardly over a series of low hills. There wasn’t one impressive bit of architecture in the lot of them. Most of the buildings looked to be constructed of boards and tree trunks slapped together. A few had walls shored up with slabs of rock and mortar. Roofs were made of slate and thatch, though he saw a few that had actual grass growing on them.  _Grass_. Thick, bright green, and waving in the slight breeze. All it needed were a few sheep grazing in it and the picture of a bumpkin’s paradise would be complete.

He couldn’t imagine what in the Maker’s name would make Gereon come to  _this_  pathetic looking place.

National pride pricked by the poor decision making of one of the few countrymen he held in high esteem, Dorian turned toward Cullen and asked hopefully, “Are you quite certain we didn’t take a wrong turn at the last overturned tree stump? Perhaps we were led astray by the third pond after that charming pile of rocks?”

Lounging against a large boulder with all the lazy grace of a predator, the former thane of Red-Lion Hold gave one of those low, husky chuckles that never failed to kindle a tiny spark of arousal deep in Dorian’s gut. “Aye. That is Redcliffe.”

Dorian arched an eyebrow in challenge. “There wouldn’t happen to be two of them, would there?”

Lifting his hand, Cullen pointed toward the cliffs rising behind the village. Dorian obligingly looked at them, and while he could grudgingly admit that the rock did have a crimson cast to it, he would have never called it  _red_. That was far too generous.

“Fereldans,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “We’re going to get lice down there.” He shot Cullen a sideways glance, taking in the layers of mismatched fur the man wore with no shame whatsoever. “If we haven’t any already.”

It had taken nearly three weeks of travel to get from the hold to Redcliffe. Eschewing roads for some Maker-forsaken reason—possibly he was allergic to them and the convenience they offered—Cullen had led their bizarre little party through endless stretches of wilderness. They’d traversed steep, icy mountain passes that Dorian had been certain were going to kill them and thick, tangled jungles that seemed more appropriate for the northern climes than down in the chilly south. Nights were spent in camps of varying levels of comfort and depressingly little in the way of intimacy. The grueling pace Dorian had set left no time for anything but eating, sleeping, and walking. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement and he hadn’t enjoyed it in the least, but arriving at the Fereldan village in time to meet Felix and stop Gereon from making an even bigger mistake than he’d already made was of paramount importance.

Throughout it all, Cullen had not offered one word of complaint nor had he hinted at feeling regret for leaving his home. Dorian had watched him carefully those first few days, scrutinizing everything he said and did in search of evidence that he wished to return to his people. There hadn’t been anything to find. He’d been consistently upbeat, always ready with an encouraging word whenever Dorian got stuck in the mud or slid too far down a trail or started up one his many,  _many_  complaints about everything and anything south of Minrathous.

Out in the wilds, far away from anything even pretending at civilization, Cullen had seemed as peaceful and at home as the animals that accompanied them. It hadn’t been unusual for him to race off with Selkor to scout ahead, effortlessly ranging Maker only knew how far out while Dorian fought through tangles of weeds and fallen trees and over uneven, treacherous ground. He never seemed to tire and would return windblown and flushed and grinning with a feral excitement that often made Dorian wish their mission wasn’t quite so urgent.

But every time his resolve started to weaken, he had only to glance upward to see the sickly green hole in the sky. Day or night, it pulsated with malevolent lightning, occasionally spitting out a glowing speck that would streak through the sky like the worst kind of falling star. They had not encountered whatever monstrosities were emerging from the tear, but they had stumbled upon one of the smaller holes that were opening up near the ground. There was nothing they could do to secure it and leaving it open to unleash demons into the world hadn’t sat well with either of them, yet they could not close it and they couldn’t linger. The best they could do was kill the demons that had already come through and continue on their way, mildly consoled that at least there weren’t any settlements of people nearby that would be in danger.

Now, finally, they had arrived. And Dorian was so underwhelmed by how anticlimactic it was that he almost felt disappointed.

“Contact your friend,” Cullen advised, completely ignoring Dorian’s very valid hygiene concern. “Let us discover what his father has done.”

“Yes, yes,” Dorian huffed, waving it off with one hand as he reached into his tunic with the other to withdraw the crystal. “We’ve been walking for weeks, Cullen. Unlike you, I need a few minutes rest before I engage magisters in combat.”

With the utter disregard of someone who had never faced a magister in combat, Cullen gave a rolling shrug. “You will not do so alone. You know this.”

Oh, yes. Dorian knew that  _very_ well. If there was one thing he could always count on, it was Cullen’s fearless refusal to give a damn about the danger he gleefully entered whenever possible. All the time he’d spent with the man and he still couldn’t fathom it, whether it was just an inexplicable aspect of Cullen’s personality or if it was another one of those ridiculous gifts the Avvar were so insistent that he had received from their gods.

“If at all possible, I would prefer  _not_  starting a fight,” Dorian reminded him. “Gereon Alexius was both a mentor and a friend to me. If he can be reasoned with, I would pursue that avenue first.”

Cullen’s gaze lifted as he looked pointedly at the hole in the sky. “There is no reason in this, Dorian.”

“I know,” he replied softly, staunchly ignoring the chill that prickled his nape and slid icily down his spine.

During their travels, Dorian had had plenty of time to think about what he’d say when he finally met with Felix and his father. He’d worried at it, gone over every possibility he could think of, no matter how fantastic or mundane. But the truth of it was that he wasn’t confident in anything. The crippling blows of Livia’s death and Felix’s condition had done something to his old friend, wounded him in a way that couldn’t be healed, and Dorian wasn’t certain that anything he could say or do would reach him.

Either Cullen read his disquiet in his tone or something of it was visible on his face, because he drew his attention away from his increasingly dark, hopeless thoughts. “Dorian.” When Dorian looked his way, he continued gently. “All we can do is try.”

_We_ , he said. A subtle reminder that Dorian wasn’t doing this alone. He would have tried to do it by himself, certainly. An unnatural hole in the sky put everything into perspective and made even the greatest fears and insecurities small and meaningless. But to have a partner in this, in  _life_ , was a gift for which he would never stop being grateful.

“Yes,” he replied brightly, plastering on a confident smile that was only partially feigned. “And so we shall.”

Right this moment, in fact. 

Focusing on the crystal, Dorian murmured, “Felix? Can you speak with me?”

An answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming. That wasn’t unexpected. Since the darkspawn attack, Gereon went overboard with his attempt to keep Felix protected, as if smothering him now would in some way assuage the misbegotten guilt Dorian knew that he suffered for what had happened to his family. No doubt Felix was even now in the presence of his father and needed to make some excuse to get away.

In the distance, he could make out the indistinct shapes of the villagers of Redcliffe going about their undoubtedly dreary lives. They were too far away for him to search for familiar faces, but their clothing seemed to be constructed of the drab, unremarkable fabrics that Dorian had come to associate with Ferelden during his trip south from Tevinter. And no one from Tevinter would be caught dead wearing such unfashionable garments.  _Especially_  not a magister.

“Perhaps they haven’t arrived yet,” Dorian said to Cullen, frowning thoughtfully at the scene before him. “I see no one from my homeland down there.”

“Then we shall await them,” Cullen responded equably. “Tevinter is far to the north. It is unsurprising that we have arrived before them.”

It was entirely possible that Dorian’s perception of time and distance was distorted. So strong was his urgency to reach Redcliffe that it had felt like they were moving at a snail’s pace and Dorian had feared that they would not arrive in time to prevent whatever it was that Gereon and his cult had come to do with this so-called Herald of Andraste. But Cullen was right. It was a  _long_  way from Tevinter to Ferelden and if there were a number of people accompanying them, it would slow them down considerably.

“All right,” Dorian said after a moment. “Let’s—”

The sudden bloom of light within the crystal cut him off.

“Sorry,” came Felix’s somewhat harried sounding voice. “Father wasn’t leaving me alone.”

An unexpected surge of relief washed over Dorian.  _Foolish_ , he chided himself.  _Of course nothing happened to him. Gereon wouldn’t allow it._ Though, the Gereon Dorian knew wouldn’t join cults either. Perhaps a bit of concern wasn’t completely outside the realm of good sense after all.

“Never mind all that,” Dorian dismissed the apology. “How far are you from Redcliffe?”

“We’re here. In the castle. We’ve been here for weeks.”

Dorian opened his mouth to respond, but nothing was immediately forthcoming. A glance at Cullen showed him to be just as perplexed. He must have heard him wrong. That was the only explanation for it. They’d left Red-Lion Hold at the same time Felix had left Tevinter. There was no way Felix could have been in Redcliffe for  _weeks_.

“I beg your pardon?”

A sigh echoed out of the crystal. “He used magic, Dorian. The magic the two of you developed.”

This time, it didn’t feel like a chill creeping down his spine but rather a deluge of freezing water dousing him from head to foot. Cullen’s eyebrows rose even as his lips curved downward in a frown. Dorian lifted a hand in a gesture that meant that he would explain once he was finished speaking with Felix.

“Are you all right?” Stupid question, he knew, but in that instant, it superseded everything else.

Felix chuckled dryly. “The magic did not harm me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

_Right. Moving on._  Dorian cleared his throat. “Can you make it to the village to speak in person? We’re on the outskirts now and could meet you in—”

“We?” Felix interrupted, curiosity overpowering his earlier strain. “Who’s with you?”

“Ah, well,” Dorian temporized, not quite certain how to broach the subject of their possessed entourage. Because after spending weeks in Falkyr’s company, he wasn’t buying Cullen’s insistence that the eagle was normal. “Cullen and...”  _Maker help me._  “...two of our friends.”

“Thane Strong-Arms?” Felix exclaimed, dissolving into gleeful laughter as Dorian winced in minor mortification. A sideways glance at Cullen found him studying him with interest, one eyebrow cocked and something that looked suspiciously like a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I actually get to meet this half-naked barbarian you married?”

_Oh, for Andraste’s sake._  Leave it to Felix to drag out their  _private_  gossip in front of the subject of it. “He can hear you, Felix,” Dorian chided him in mock severity. “And he’s likely going to be my former husband if you keep it up.”

The mild scolding had no effect whatsoever. Felix kept chuckling, damn the man. “When you said you’d bring him to Tevinter, I didn’t think you were serious.”

Dorian sniffed in offended dignity. “I’m a man of my word, you know this. But honestly, Felix, has magically-assisted travel addled your mind so much that you can truly mistake this decrepit mud-pit for Tevinter?”

“You really are headed for a break-up, aren’t you?” Felix teased. “Now you’re insulting the poor man’s country.”

“Oh, please. He covers himself in mud all the time. It’s hardly an insult.”

Cullen was openly grinning at him now, the sort of grin that promised trouble later. Dorian sighed heavily, feeling both put-upon and inordinately happy. It was a disgustingly bubbly kind of happiness and he had no idea what to do with it. Being heckled by the two most important people in his life shouldn’t in any way make him happy. And yet, there he was, struggling not to smile.

“How about the chantry?” Felix suggested finally. “It’s usually empty these days. We can meet there.”

A crisis of this magnitude seemed like the perfect time for the masses to start trying to get square with the Maker, but glancing up at the ominous hole above them, Dorian supposed that he could understand why people might be turning their backs on something they believed had abandoned them. He sent an inquiring glance Cullen’s way, and without spending time thinking about it, Cullen responded with a nod.

“Yes,” he agreed, despite having no idea where the chantry was located. From this distance and with the plethora of trees dotting the village’s landscape, it was unreasonably difficult to tell. “We can head that way now. Are you going to be able to get away?”

That question got a snort of disbelief. “I’ve been sneaking out since I was old enough to walk, Dorian. What do you think?”

He had a point. “All right, all right. We’ll see you there.”

Knowing Felix, there was an embarrassingly inappropriate comment forthcoming. Dorian hurriedly deactivated the crystal before he could utter it, slanting a wary glance Cullen’s way.  _Here it comes_.

Pushing off from his sprawl against the rock, Cullen sauntered over in that rolling, predatory gait that he  _knew_  stirred up Dorian’s libido. In an effort—valiant but ultimately useless—to head him off, Dorian gave him his sternest, most severely quelling glare. Cullen ignored it, stopping only once he was standing right next to him, somehow managing to make a couple throwaway inches of height tall enough to loom over him.

“So,” he drawled, exaggerating his Avvar accent until it was a thick burr. “You fancy my arms, do you, husband?”

“Oh, stop it,” Dorian hissed, giving him an ineffectual shove in the middle of his mud-covered bare chest. “This is neither the time nor place.”

Cullen just smiled wickedly. Dorian took a deep, calming breath, telling himself to take his own Maker-damned advice. It should have been a simple task, what with the hole in the sky raining down bits of unholy terror on the earth, but in actuality, it really wasn’t.

“I may have mentioned your muscular physique to Felix,” he grudgingly said after a moment’s mulish silence. “Once or twice.”

The admission got a deep laugh out of Cullen that melted into amused chuckles. Before they started to taper off, he edged closer to Dorian and leaned in. “You’ll have ample opportunity to appreciate it tonight,” he promised.

And Dorian, damn his body to the deepest part of the Void, couldn’t quite suppress the shiver of anticipation at that. He meant his eyes to find Cullen’s, but they lingered first on his scarred mouth. A bit too long, if he were being honest with himself. When he finally tore them away, Cullen was starting to smirk.

“Yes, well,” Dorian started, clearing his throat pointedly and fussing with one of belts that held his staff against his back. “We’ll not get this settled if we never find this chantry, now will we?”

Cullen arched a brow, though instead of responding with a snappy comeback, he stepped back a few paces and gave a sharp whistle. Out of a conspicuously eagle-less sky came Falkyr, plummeting down toward them as if he’d been tightly circling their heads the entire time. He hadn’t been. Dorian was sure of it. Yet there he was, alighting onto Cullen’s arm as if he’d been there all along.

“We seek Dorian’s friend Felix,” Cullen told the eagle as plainly as if he were speaking to another person. “He means to meet us at a chantry. Dorian will describe it to you.”

Cullen looking expectantly at him was nothing unusual, but when the eagle did it too, it cut off what was going to be a sputtering protest.  _The eagle isn’t possessed, my perfect ass_. “Do I appear to be an expert in Fereldan architecture to you?”

Falkyr blinked at him. Whatever that meant, Dorian wasn’t sure he wanted to know. A bird’s opinion on his knowledge of southern culture hardly mattered. Cullen, on the other hand, was giving him that patiently fond look that meant he thought Dorian was being silly but loved him anyway. He glowered at them both for a moment, then relented with a sigh.

“I passed through a few cities and towns on my way south, it’s true, but I’m hardly experienced in the matter,” he cautioned them. “Doubtlessly, there are a multitude of  _quaint_  country villages that do something differently from what I’ve seen and I can’t begin to guess about a place that covers its roofs in bits of pasture. But those I’ve seen were constructed of stone. Actual shingles on the roofs. Plenty of ostentatious arches. Glass in the windows.”

The eagle stared at him, unblinking, while he spoke, then cocked his head to look at Cullen. Some sort of silent communication passed between them that Dorian wasn’t privy to, because after a moment, Cullen nodded and Falkyr took flight. He winged away toward the village, leaving them standing there looking after him.

“Well?” Dorian asked after a moment. “Now what?”

With a clap on the shoulder, Cullen turned away and started searching for a good path down. “Now, we follow him.”

If Dorian was being honest, and he generally was these days when it occurred in the privacy of his mind, it sounded like an asinine plan. Traipsing after an eagle who had presumably listened to Dorian rattle off a few descriptive sentences about a structure he had probably never seen before—living on the side of a mountain the way he had—while trying not to be detected by any members of this Venatori cult that was present down there seemed like a recipe for disaster. Dorian  _might_  have been able to sneak through without drawing too much attention, provided that he didn’t encounter anyone he knew from Tevinter, but Cullen would stand out like a house on fire. Still, he wasn’t overly confident that a bird of questionable intellect could locate what they were looking for. Life with the Avvar had opened his eyes to the possibilities that living closely with animals offered, but he wasn’t ready to abandon years’ worth of general disinterest and dislike of the creatures simply because  _some_  had grown on him.

And yet, after nearly half an hour spent taking a rather circuitous route around the town, Cullen brought them to a large stone building, full of arches and tall windows, that practically screamed chantry to passersby. Falkyr was perched on the corner of one of the lower roofs waiting for them, and once they’d arrived, a rustle of leaves heralded the arrival of Selkor.

The great cat slunk out of the undergrowth, ears pricked and eyes alert for others. He passed by Dorian, pausing long enough to butt his big furry head against his hip. Automatically, Dorian gave his ears a brief scratch, only becoming aware that he’d done it after the lion had moved beyond him and stopped at Cullen’s side.

_Oh, honestly_ , he thought with rote disgust, rubbing his hand against his thigh.  _This is what I’ve become._   _Someone who actually enjoys petting flea-bitten animals._ One of Selkor’s ears flicked as if he’d heard the thought and for an instant, Dorian caught him looking at him. Just to be safe, he thought sharply,  _Stay out of my thoughts, you nosy beast_.

Whether Selkor heard it or not was anybody’s guess. Cullen quit eyeing their surroundings and gestured them toward the unadorned secondary door they’d found at the back of the building. He entered first, his hand loosely wrapped around his sword, with Dorian following close behind him, mana gathered and ready to be shaped into a few handy fireballs should there be any unpleasant surprises lurking within. Selkor brought up the rear, though the moment they were through the doorway he ranged out ahead to prowl along the perimeter.

There was nothing hostile waiting for them inside. The door had opened into a tiny office and that, they quickly discovered, led into the main chamber of the chantry. The ceiling soared high above them, held up by archways adorned with,  _of course_ , carved dogs. At the head of the room was the dais, filled with the statues and paraphernalia that would be used during a service. A series of pews and empty space filled up the rest of the interior. It wasn’t exactly the sort of decor that was popular in Tevinter, but it was similar enough, albeit rather plain, that Dorian could recognize it and find it somewhat familiar.

Maker only knew what Cullen thought of it.

As far as he knew, Cullen had never been inside a place like this. Or if he had, it had been when he was too young to remember, during that undefined time prior to being found by the Avvar. Dorian joined him in the center of the chamber, where Cullen was standing and peering into the shadows that gathered in the alcoves. The soft whispery scratch of feathers announced Falkyr’s presence before Dorian caught sight of him, landing on the large iron chandelier above their heads and situating himself between two of the burning candles, heedless of the fire.

“We may as well make ourselves comfortable,” he said, resting a hand against Cullen’s arm. “There’s no telling how long it will take Felix to arrive.”

“No telling at all,” a soft, mildly amused voice murmured from the alcove in the corner.

The muscles beneath Dorian’s hand tensed at the sound, though he hastily gave Cullen’s forearm a squeeze in reassurance, hoping to prevent the act of tensing for a fight from becoming one. “Now Felix,” he said chidingly as the shadows shifted and his friend walked into clear view. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on barbarians? They’re an excitable lot. They tend to attack first and forget to ask questions at all.”

Felix sighed as if dealing with Dorian was the worst kind of trial. “My apologies,” he said, the lilt of humor still lurking in his voice as he dipped his head in a nod of acknowledgement to Cullen. “Old habits between even older friends.”

Cullen smiled at him in greeting, the tension from a moment ago gone as if it had never been. “I know something of these habits.”

Before the conversation could get away from him, Dorian quickly made unnecessary introductions. “Felix Alexius, this is Cullen Wolf-Bane, former thane of Red-Lion Hold. Cullen, this is my dearest friend.”

“Well met, Felix,” Cullen said, offering him his hand. When Felix reached to take it, Cullen clasped him by the forearm and drew him into one of the rough, encompassing embraces Avvar seemed to favor. Obviously not expecting such a show of affection, Felix gave a startled laugh. The sight forced Dorian to bite the inside of his mouth lest the smile that was threatening to overtake his face succeed. “You are welcomed by our family.”

Falkyr uttered a pulsing trill and shuffled on his makeshift perch. As Felix struggled to unearth himself from Cullen’s arms to look up at him properly, Selkor padded over and sat down next to them, watching with wide gold eyes that gleamed with more than candlelight.

“This is them, isn’t it?” Felix asked as Cullen finally let him go, looking a little rumpled and as if he was fighting off a grin. “Your lion and eagle friends.”

Gasping in mock offense, Dorian clapped a hand to his chest and feigned a half-step stumble backward. “Felix Alexius, watch your tongue.  _Friends_  indeed. As if I’d befriend slobbering beasts.”

Tipping his head back, Felix gave Cullen a sympathetic grimace. “He’s always like this, isn’t he? I’m sorry. He was taught courtesy in Tevinter, we just don’t know what happened to it.”

Laughing, Cullen shook his head. “I am well accustomed to Dorian’s ways. They cause me no dissatisfaction.”

That earned him a squinty, suspicious look before Dorian cleared his throat to redirect Felix’s attention. “The eagle’s Falkyr and the lion’s Selkor, yes.”

Falkyr was too high to reach, but Felix immediately held out his hand toward Selkor, palm upward. “May I?” For a second, Dorian thought he was making the request of himself or Cullen, but as Selkor leaned forward and butted his hand with his head, he realized he was asking the lion. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, turning his hand so that he could get his fingers into Selkor’s fur.

With some difficulty, Dorian tore his gaze away from his friend—looking worn and a little more gaunt than he had in those days before Dorian left Tevinter, yet practically radiating pleasure  right now—and glanced at Cullen. The swell of happiness that he felt at watching Felix have a little fun in these last, dire days stuttered as he got a good look at his husband’s expression. There was a serious cast to his eyes and a faint tightness to his mouth that Dorian recognized only because he had spent so much time with him and had learned to read him. His brows were beginning to knit in consternation when Cullen, no doubt feeling himself subject to scrutiny, met his eyes.

Something of his concern must have been evident in his own expression, for Cullen’s lightened and he gave a minute nod that meant that all was well. It eased some of the tightness in Dorian’s chest but it didn’t dispel it completely. Something had given him pause and because it had to be tied to Felix somehow, he couldn’t relax fully until he knew what it was.

Shifting his weight in frustratingly indistinct discomfort, Dorian folded his arms across his chest and interrupted the one-sided conversation Felix had taken up with Selkor during his inattention. “Felix, before you forget about us completely in favor of your new furry friend, perhaps you might explain what’s going on with your father and this Venatori business?”

When he looked up, Dorian was relieved to see that there was no guilt on Felix’s face for having gotten sidetracked. The poor man was entitled to a little fun. Especially now, when it seemed as though the entire bloody world was ending.

"Of course," Felix said, then proceeded to tell a tale so patently ridiculous that if Dorian hadn't seen evidence in the sky to corroborate it, he never would have believed it.

The destruction of the Conclave that had been meant to end the Mage-Templar war killing the southerners' Divine and tearing a hole in the sky. Some darkspawn magister that fancied himself a god called the Elder One promising a return to Tevinter's golden age. A resurgence in blood magic practitioners throwing their lot in with the crazy bastard and calling themselves Venatori. Gereon Alexius, always such a wise, reasonable man, leading the charge under the misguided belief that this Elder One would cure Felix of the blight. Some Dalish elf called the Herald of Andraste rising in the wake of the Conclave's destruction, falling in with something called the Inquisition, and now on his way to Redcliffe. Which was apparently a bad idea, considering the Venatori and their Elder One wanted his hand.

By the end of the story, Dorian had exchanged so many baffled and disbelieving looks with Cullen that his neck was starting to hurt. It sounded like something out of those trashy novels that that Varric Tethras fellow wrote, sans the copious amounts of fornication that made them so popular: an insane ancient darkspawn, secret cults, the end of the world, rebellions, armies, and a hero that might or might not have been sent by Andraste and the Maker to aid them.

"That's all?" Dorian asked when Felix had completed the story, feeling wrong-footed and deeply disturbed. He knew that he wasn't asleep and that he hadn't been caught in a demon's illusion, but it certainly felt that way. Cheerfully, he added, "Well, I'm sure we'll have this whole sorry disaster wrapped up never."

Felix nodded in commiseration, the joy of their meeting now dramatically overshadowed by the dire surreality of their situation. "Now you understand why I asked you to come."

Dorian arched an eyebrow at him. "So that we all might die horrifically together?"

" _Dorian_."

All things considered, it wasn't much of a rebuke. However, Dorian obligingly dropped the act. "I appreciate the faith you have in my abilities, Felix. Truly I do. But not even my magic is strong enough to combat all of  _this._ "

"Yet it is the five of us who are here, Dorian," Cullen said, sounding far too calm for Dorian's liking. "We cannot do nothing."

"No, I'm not suggesting that we step aside and let darkspawn take over the world," Dorian returned, glancing between him and Felix. "I'm simply being realistic about what we can do with the resources we have at our disposal."

"Then we ought to add to our resources," Felix interjected. "The Herald of Andraste is on his way. Scouts report that he’ll be here today. Speak with him. Find out if he's what the rumors say. Perhaps he and his Inquisition will aid us."

There were an awful lot of  _maybes_  and  _perhapses_  floating around. Too many, in Dorian's opinion, and not nearly enough certainties. He frowned dubiously in Felix's direction. "You said he's an elf. That may pose a problem in his willingness to help us."

"Why?" Cullen asked curiously.

Dorian looked to Felix, who looked right back at him. It took only an instant, but Dorian came out of the silent exchange feeling as though he'd lost the draw. "In Tevinter, it's customary to keep slaves. Predominantly  _elven_  slaves, though there are some humans. I hadn't realized that it wasn't common practice until I came south."

The revulsion that contorted Cullen's expression said more eloquently than words what he thought of this tidbit of Tevinter culture. To a people who had no true possessions and treated everything as transient, the concept of owning  _people_  must be alien indeed. Perhaps it would have been to Dorian too, had he not grown up in a country that treated it as commonplace.

Having been thoroughly conditioned by life to expect everything good in his life to ultimately be stolen away, Dorian found himself somewhat anxiously bracing for condemnation. Logically, it didn't seem realistic to think that Cullen would decide that he didn't love him anymore and leave him for something far beyond the scope of his responsibility. Yet that didn't stop him from feeling that nauseating tendril of fear as he awaited a verbal response.

But Cullen once again surprised him. "We do not fight for Tevinter. We fight for Thedas. This Herald need only look skyward to understand this."

Leaving well enough alone had never been Dorian's forte. He knew that he ought to do it, escaping a conflict over ideals as he was, but a retort needled at him until it slipped unbidden from his mouth. "Would you like to be the one to remind him of that if it becomes necessary?"

Cullen's expression was grave as he glanced Dorian's way. "Aye. I shall do what needs done."

_Of course you will, brave, foolish man._  Even now, with the state of the world rapidly falling into chaos, Cullen didn’t become daunted easily. What they were facing sounded like something out of a storyteller’s imagination, yet Dorian knew that however impossible the odds, Cullen would approach it as if he alone could set everything back to rights. Some days, he still couldn’t believe he’d somehow earned the man’s affection, mud-spattered and bedraggled as he so often appeared.

“I need to return to my father,” Felix said with a sigh. “He’ll wonder where I am if I’m gone too long.”

Dorian nodded in understanding. “Of course. If you believe that we’ll not be discovered, we’ll remain here until we can figure out how to arrange a meeting with this Herald.”

“Yes.” Mid-nod, Felix paused, his expression brightening with a look Dorian recognized from long experience as an idea that was bound to end in trouble. “Actually, I’ll arrange for the Herald to meet you here.”

It sounded like a reasonable idea. If people steered clear of the chantry, it would ensure that they had privacy to talk. And it wasn’t as if  _all_  of Felix’s ideas ended in disaster. Just most of them. The odds weren’t in their favor, but quite frankly, Dorian couldn’t come up with anything better. He wasn’t familiar with this land.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Cullen’s nod of agreement. “All right,” he said. “Do you know how you’ll get him here?”

Felix shrugged as if the whole concept of planning was beneath him. “Not yet. I’ll think of something.”

_Right, then. Abject disaster. It’s like I never left Minrathous._  Yet instead of feeling trepidation for all the ways this might go wrong, Dorian just smiled at his old friend, insulated against such thoughts by the bubble of comfortable familiarity that came with the exchange.

They said their temporary goodbyes and Felix took his leave, slipping out of the chantry as silently as he arrived. Mood somewhat buoyed by having gotten to see his best friend after being apart for such a long time, Dorian turned to Cullen with a wide grin.

“So,” he began, lifting his eyebrows. “What do you think of Felix?”

Cullen’s expression was as grave as his voice. “He’s dying.”

Excited enthusiasm squashed by this pronouncement, Dorian’s face fell. “Yes, he is,” he returned reproachfully. “Thank you for reminding me. I’d almost forgotten my only friend’s days are limited.”

“Why hasn’t anything been done?” Cullen asked, seemingly oblivious to the tone of Dorian’s voice or the fact that he’d said anything at all.

Wanting to be angry about the way Cullen was digging at the wound and unwilling to relinquish his resentment in the face of what looked to be genuine confusion, Dorian scowled at him. “He has the blight, Cullen. There isn’t anything to be done except make the time remaining to him as pleasant and pain-free as possible.”

Admittedly, Dorian didn’t know the full extent of Avvar knowledge of the world. It was possible that their contact with the blight was limited or they’d concocted one of their grandiose stories to explain it and didn’t recognize the symptoms when they saw the real thing. Perhaps Cullen had never actually seen it before and had forgotten that that was what was wrong with him. Dorian had told him about Felix, of course, but he rarely spoke of his condition. It was better to remember Felix the way that he was rather than to harp on about what was becoming of him. And it was just plain sad. Dorian didn’t enjoy being sad and tried very hard to stay as far from that feeling, and from any of the others related to it, as he could get. Especially when the comfort of a good bottle of wine was beyond his reach. 

That didn’t excuse Cullen’s tactlessness, but it at least offered a bit of insight into it. Though, that was the reasonable way of looking at it and Dorian wasn’t inclined to be reasonable. Not where Felix was concerned.

But Cullen was looking at him now like Dorian was a fool who had disappointed him. “Lowlanders,” he muttered in a voice steeped in exasperated disgust. “How your foolish practices have not led to your demise I cannot understand.”

“What?” Dorian snapped, affronted. “What does—”

Cullen jabbed a finger in the direction Felix had gone. “Your friend suffers without cause. The sickness in him can be healed. It should have been done long ago.”

Just like that, the anger evaporated in a rush of disbelief. Dorian gaped at him, mouth hanging open like an uncouth lout, before he came back to himself with a splutter of indignation. “That isn’t— _No_ , Cullen, it can’t be. I know. I’ve looked! I traveled all the way to Weisshaupt to speak with the Grey Wardens about it and there is nothing that can reverse it.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t want it to be true. He did. Desperately. But he had searched the length and breadth of Thedas for hope. He’d plumbed the depths of the greatest libraries in Tevinter, scoured through texts so old their ink was faded almost to nothing and the language used within them was so archaic that they were nearly illegible. And he knew that Gereon had done even more than that. If there was a cure to be found, one of them surely would have managed to do it. But they hadn’t. A fact made starkly obvious by Gereon feeling it necessary to make pacts with crazed ancient darkspawn.

A part of Dorian might have appreciated Cullen’s attempt to give him hope, but having been so thoroughly disappointed at this juncture, he didn’t want it. Having it would just make Felix’s death harder to cope with when it happened. And he knew it was going to be damnably difficult as it was.

Yet clearly nothing he said was making a difference, because Cullen wasn’t deterred. “You would allow lowlander prejudice to doom your friend?”

This was  _not_  the time for Cullen’s habitual vagueness. “If you know something, Cullen, spit it out,” Dorian hissed angrily.

With almost exaggerated patience, Cullen replied, “If asked, the gods will heal him.”

Ah, yes. Religious zealotry on top of wishful thinking. Dorian scoffed. “If asking for divine intervention actually netted a response, I suspect the world would be in quite a different state than it is now.”

Cullen sighed heavily. “Dorian—”

Leaving his place at Cullen’s side, Selkor moved forward and took a sheathed-claw swipe at Dorian’s leg. It didn’t hurt, but it drew his attention and when he looked down, he found the lion looking straight at him with a quirk to his face that made it seem eerily like an expression of exasperation.

_Your grief clouds your understanding,_  came the spirit’s thoughts _. Release it._  Although they’d achieved a friendly relationship with one another, Dorian’s protests to the contrary notwithstanding, Selkor did not often make contact with him through the Fade. Why he refrained from doing so was not clear. Perhaps it was taxing to the spirit in some manner. Perhaps it simply did not wish to make the effort. Or maybe it knew that its presence was still not wholly comfortable to a man raised with very different opinions of spirits than the Avvar. Whatever the case, it typically waited for direct overtures on Dorian’s part before it tried to initiate conversations of this manner with him.

Right now, however, Dorian could hear that whispery voice so clearly that it tickled at the edges of his senses. And with it came the realization of Cullen’s meaning.

“Possession,” he blurted out, gaze snapping up from the lion to spear Cullen. “You’re talking about possession. You want to let a spirit possess Felix.” 

Selkor swung his head toward Cullen and right there in front of Dorian they shared a look that reminded him of the way Gereon and Livia used to look at each other sometimes, when one of her apprentices completely missed the point of an experiment and botched it beyond repair. It made Dorian bristle in irritation, not simply because he felt he was being patronized, but because it was a Maker-damned  _lion_  doing it.

“I want to let Selkor heal him,” Cullen said plainly.

“A spirit-possessed lion,” Dorian clarified sarcastically. “You want to let a wild animal possess my dearest and only friend because you believe that that will cure the  _blight_. That’s what you would have me understand?”

A crackling bang interrupted whatever nonsense Cullen was about to say in response. As one, they spun toward to the sound, moving quickly enough that they were able to watch the air in front of them split itself around a glowing splotch of sickly green. It wasn’t the first tear they’d seen, but it was the first time they had witnessed the initial occurrence of one of the things. Turbulent magical energy buffeted Dorian’s senses, stirring up his mana. Selkor must have felt it too, for his hackles rose and a low, gravelly growl started up deep in his throat.

“Demons,” Cullen said, drawing his sword. Next to the Fade-tear, it gleamed a bright, almost incandescent light. “Make ready.”

“So much for meeting this Herald here,” Dorian muttered, mentally shuffling through his repertoire of spells for the most useful. Fire had always been his go-to element, but it would be useless against a rage demon if one spilled out of the tear.

“Is it not said that he can close these rifts?”

“People say a lot of things. Especially when they’re scared and hopeless,” Dorian reminded him. “Good news for us if they’re right, but if they’re not...” He trailed off with a shrug.

There were mages in Redcliffe now, both the remnants of the southern Circles and a group of Altus mages trained in Tevinter. Surely they could step in and contain the demons before they devoured the town, if the Herald proved unable to live up to his reputation.  _We just have to handle it long enough to give this Herald the opportunity to try_. Which might, Dorian knew, be easier said than done, depending on how long it took him to get there.

When the demons came a few minutes later, they were ready. Cullen waded into the group of rage and fear demons that appeared without a care and Selkor was right beside him. Dorian hung back out of the way, directing lightning to the former and fire toward the latter. Whenever a demon broke free and attempted to flank one of them, Falkyr dropped down on the thing and tore at it with his beak and talons. It was a strategy they’d perfected between the early battles near the hold and those they encountered on their journey north and it served them well here in the confined space.

Before long, the demons were dispatched back to the Fade and they regrouped in front of the rift, breathing heavily but none the worse for wear. Cullen, reckless idiot that he was, didn’t even have a scratch on him.

“Well,” Dorian commented lightly, eyeing the inside of rift. “That wasn’t too bad.”

The second wave, when it came about twenty minutes later, fell quickly to their might. And the third. And the fourth. By the fifth, however, their exertions were beginning to take a toll. Cullen’s mostly bare body bore scratches and one particularly deep-looking gash across his ribs. Dorian had healed it as best he could on depleting mana, but in the interest of conserving his power for as many battles as he could eke out of it, he hadn’t been able to close the wound completely. Selkor was covered in streaks of brackish blood, looking more than a little demonic himself. The eagle had taken a hit, though it hadn’t been severe and he was now perched on a nearby sconce, putting his ruffled feathers back to rights.

By the twelfth wave, Dorian’s magic was gone and he was there in the thick of it with Cullen, beating back the demons with his staff and killing them when he could with the blade at the end. Close quarters combat wasn’t his preferred method of fighting, but there wasn’t enough time between incursions to rest properly and he wasn’t going to let the others fight without him.

Cullen’s wrist appeared to be paining him. He’d switched the sword to his other hand and was favoring it whenever he could afford to do so. The gash on his side had reopened and the oft-unworn trousers Dorian was always so proud of him for wearing were sporting a rather large, bloody rip across the thigh. It wasn’t enough to slow him down, but Dorian knew that it had nothing to do with the severity of the injuries and everything to do with Cullen’s single-minded stubbornness when it came to battle.

So when the chantry door abruptly swung open an eternity later, Dorian chanced taking his eyes off of the fear demon he was in the midst of goring and spotted a motley collection of oddballs in the doorway. Two elves, a dwarf, and some great hulking monstrosity behind them that had the looks of a Qunari about him.  _The Herald of fucking Andraste_ , he thought in relieved exasperation.

“It’s about bloody time,” he snapped, uncaring about his conspicuous lack of gratitude for the reinforcements. “Help us close this damn thing, would you?”

* * *

 All in all, Dorian decided some time later, the Herald didn’t seem like a bad sort. Miserably tardy when his presence was direly needed, but the feats that glowing hand of his were capable of more than made up for his lack of punctuality. As luck would have it, he actually  _could_  close rifts as rumor claimed and after one last battle, the rift had been sealed and the ugly town of Redcliffe had been saved.

Mahanon Lavellan, he’d introduced himself as, along with Solas the hobo, the Qunari with the dumbest name Dorian had ever heard, and the famous author Varric Tethras. They’d seemed about as bemused at finding a Tevinter mage, an Avvar barbarian, and two wild animals on their side as Dorian had been at meeting them, but after a bit of uneasy banter, they’d worked out an agreeable solution. The Herald and his misfits would help Dorian, and by proxy Felix, with their Gereon Alexius problem, and in return, Dorian and his strange family would fight with them if it came down to it, and provide the Inquisition with as much information as they could about Alexius, the Venatori, and their Elder God nonsense. 

Which was how they now found themselves back on the road and traveling to what Dorian was certain to be another disappointment called Haven.

_How is this my life?_  Dorian wondered, watching the dwarf having an animated one-sided conversation with Selkor, who appeared to be perfectly content to walk beside him and occasionally flick his ears or twitch his tail in what must have been some agreed upon conversational signals.

Cullen kept pace at his side, frequently side-eyeing the Qunari. Dorian had already tried to temper his overprotectiveness by explaining that  _all_  Qunari weren’t vicious killers of Tevinter mages and that despite the flirtatious comment Iron Bull—still an abysmally stupid name—had aimed his way, he would have to have reached a whole new level of pathetic desperation to ever consider having any kind of  _dalliance_  with someone that looked like a farm animal. But that perfectly reasonable explanation had fallen on conveniently deaf ears and he had a feeling that if anything else happened, Cullen was going to kill the man. Not a terribly auspicious beginning to barbarian-Inquisition relations, he thought and hoped that he wouldn’t have to explain why one of their warriors was dead to whoever was in charge of the operation.

_Men_. As if he was some helpless damsel unable of taking care of himself. Come attack or unwelcome advance, Dorian was quite capable of setting the miscreant on fire and Cullen well knew it. Still, he couldn’t chastise him too hard for it. It was such a wonderfully nice novelty to matter enough to another man to make him get overprotective and possessive that Dorian didn’t want to discourage it. Especially when that possessiveness hinted at quite an entertaining night whenever they reached their destination.

Thankfully for both Dorian’s feet and his libido, the journey didn’t take very long. In no time, they were walking up the path to Haven, and as they stepped through its outer wall, he found that it was just as underwhelming as he’d been expecting. Practically everything was made out of wood and there were repulsive dog carvings  _everywhere_.

“This is why I married you,” Dorian told Cullen, leaning toward him so that he would hear his low murmur.

Cullen glanced his way, eyebrows rising. “Why is that?”

As they trooped up toward the chantry, Dorian pointed toward a beam, the end of which had been shaped into a particularly unfortunate image of a snarling dog. “You aren’t obsessed with dogs.”

And Cullen just laughed. It was always fun to watch him laugh and Dorian made no effort to hide his appreciative staring now. Cullen noticed, of course he did, and still chuckling, slung his arm around Dorian’s shoulders and pulled him in against his side.

“That is the only reason, is it?” he asked softly, his breath enticingly warm against Dorian’s ear.

Ignoring the arousal that curled in his stomach, Dorian sniffed disinterestedly. “If you’re hoping that it was because of your cock, you’re in for a disappointment.”

That just made Cullen laugh that low, throaty laugh that Dorian liked so much. And pressed in against his side the way that he was, he could feel the vibrations of it. “Since you find it so objectionable, husband mine, I’ll keep it from your sight.”

That earned him a protesting slap against the chest, though the gesture no doubt lost some of its pointed emphasis when Dorian’s hand lingered there for a moment too long and his fingertips very obviously slid along the contour of one of Cullen’s well-defined pectoral muscles. “Don’t you dare, you horrible man.” Loftily, he added, “Perhaps if you weren’t quite so stingy with it, I would be reminded of why I enjoy it.”

The insinuation that Cullen had grown disinterested in sex was such a bold-faced lie that Dorian could barely say it with a straight face. However, it had been some time since they’d had time and opportunity to partake in such pleasures properly. That hadn’t been anyone’s fault, that blame lay solely with the great big hole in the sky, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t tease him about it just a little.

And if the way Cullen rumbled another chuckle was any indication, he didn’t take it to heart. "Then tonight I shall remind you." That promise was followed up by a bite to his earlobe that was so sharp it made Dorian hiss. "You'll not forget again."

_Maker never save me from amorous barbarians._ "Save it for later," he protested, giving him a wholly ineffective shove. "I'd like to have my wits about me while we're meeting with these people."

Cullen grinned smugly, causing Dorian to roll his eyes in long-suffering exasperation and sigh. But truth to tell, he was  _greatly_  looking forward to this evening. So much so that it was difficult to drag his mind away from imagining how it might go and focus on the admittedly more important task at hand.

"Ah, excuse me!" a voice called as they neared the chantry doors. "You can't take animals inside."

Halting, Dorian glanced at the woman in momentary confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

Judging from her clothes, she was a cleric in the chantry. Dorian hazarded a guess that she wasn't particularly high up in the hierarchy, though he would be the first to admit that he wasn't terribly knowledgeable about how the south conducted their religious affairs.

Grimacing in uncertainty, the woman gestured toward Selkor. "The, ah, lion, messeres."

It was a mark of how much time he'd spent among the Avvar that Dorian had completely forgotten that red lions weren't a common sight in more civilized places. And they'd just paraded through the village as if there was nothing odd about his presence in the party. Glancing over his shoulder, he became aware of the number of people openly staring at them.

Turning back to the woman, Dorian smiled apologetically. "Of course. Forgive us. We've been—"

"Selkor comes with us," Cullen interrupted, turning one of his implacable The-Thane-Has-Decided-And-It-Is-Final stares on the poor cleric.

An expression of flustered uncertainty crossed her face. "But—"

"No no, it's quite all right," Dorian hastened to intervene, not wishing to cause a scene and draw more attention to themselves. He laid a hand on Cullen's arm, hoping to quell further argument. "He can wait out here with Falkyr. It's no trouble. No doubt he'd be bored with the discussion anyway."

"He is not a pet," Cullen responded, injecting the word  _pet_  with considerable distaste. "I'll not have him treated as such by lowlanders."

_Oh, for Andraste's sake._  Dorian sighed. "Cullen—"

Support came from the wild animal in question. Making a guttural noise, Selkor smacked at Cullen's calf with one of his enormous paws and walked off toward the trees that lined the side of the chantry, his tail gently swishing from side to side behind him. From that same direction came the odd chirping call of the eagle. To Dorian, who'd subconsciously begun to attribute human meanings to the things they did, it seemed almost as if they were putting on a show for their bewildered Inquisition audience.

"All right?" he asked, nudging his elbow against Cullen's side to get his attention. "They aren't offended. It's fine."

Cullen didn't appear wholly convinced, but the severity of the haughty stare he gave the cleric seemed to lessen in the wake of Selkor taking matters into his own paws.

"I'm sorry," the cleric said into the silence, sounding as if she was trying to fill it. "It's just that—"

Dorian waved the apology off and clicked his tongue. "Pay it no further mind, my dear. We'll just leave you be, yes? No doubt the Herald and his people are waiting for us."

Taking Cullen by the elbow, he quickly hustled him inside before anything more could be said about it. One glance at his expression told him that there was an argument brewing and it was best to head it off before it got started.

"Please  _try_  to cooperate with them," Dorian urged quietly, steering them into an alcove where a hushed conversation wouldn't draw too much attention. "We need their help and offending them at every turn isn't likely to make them want to provide it."

Cullen glowered at him. "And is it we who must concede at every turn? Shall we beg and plead for whatever scraps they feel like throwing us?"

Just trying to imagine either of them acting like beggars made Dorian snort in amusement. "Of course not. I wouldn't beg anything of the Archon. I'm certainly not about to do it with a  _Fereldan_." He lifted a hand. " _But_  I'm also not going to go out of my way to make needless trouble for them either. I know it isn't the same in your hold, but generally speaking everywhere else, wild animals aren't welcomed inside. Especially not animals that are perfectly capable of killing everyone in the building."

He could tell that Cullen was listening to him. There was still a hard set to his jaw, but Dorian knew from past experience that he wasn’t impervious to logic. For the most part, anyway. He had an irritating tendency to develop a selective hearing problem whenever he was cautioned against doing something reckless and stupid.

“I know it’s difficult, but try not to judge them  _too_  harshly,” Dorian continued, hoping to really hammer home the point before Cullen decided to ignore his advice and scandalize everyone around them into intractability. “At least not right away. Give them a few days first.”

Because contrary to his advice, Dorian knew that he would be judging them too. He already was. Their decor was atrocious and their fashion sense was barely above barbarian standards. And if that wasn’t offensive enough, it was likely only a matter of time before the fact that he was Tevinter got around the village and the outrageous rumors started up about how he was sacrificing babies and using blood magic to ensnare everyone around him.

Cullen was looking a bit rebellious, as if Dorian had suggested losing the fur and the mud and trying out delicate Orlesian shoes and hose for a change, but finally he nodded. “Very well. I shall  _try_.”

“All right.” Smiling brightly at him, Dorian jerked his head toward the back of the chantry, where presumably the Herald was meeting with the rest of the Inquisition’s leadership. “Let’s go see about getting this business with the Venatori straightened out, shall we?”

Unfortunately, it wasn’t nearly as easy as Dorian had made it sound.

There were guards at the door who protested mightily about them joining the meeting, though between Dorian’s blasé refusal to acknowledge the man trying to bar his way and a strategic display of muscle-flexing on Cullen’s part, they breezed right through the opposition without stopping. Inside, an argument was underway between the Herald, three women of vastly different accents, and a tall, dark-haired man with shoulders so broad they made Cullen’s look rather small in comparison. Five heads turned to stare at them as the door banged open and Dorian in turn stared at Ser Shoulders in something sidling close to appreciative awe.

“And now here’s the bloody Tevinter spy!” Shoulders said in disgust, gesturing sharply toward Dorian, who resisted the urge to glance behind him for the  _actual_ Tevinter spy.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked instead, eyebrows rising.

Judging by the man’s accent, he was Fereldan. Judging by the breadth of his shoulders, he could probably snap the table they were all clustered around in half with his bare hands. He was wearing a mismatched collection of armor, though the symbol of the Templar Order that was beaten into his vambraces suggested that he was a templar. So did the ever so faint hint of lyrium that Dorian could smell in the room.

Shoulders was glaring with open hostility at him from across the table. “Oh yes, it’s all so bleeding convenient, isn’t it? Tevinter supremacists invade Ferelden and suddenly one shows up on our doorstep wanting to  _help_  us.”

It wasn’t the first time Dorian had encountered a southerner’s dislike of Tevinters. This might have been the furthest south he’d ever traveled, but he’d been to Nevarra, the Free Marches, and even the Anderfels a time or two prior to this far lengthier absence from Tevinter. At best, people were cautious around him. At worse, openly antagonistic. The worst of it had been in the Free Marches, and there, specifically Kirkwall. But it was far from a novel experience.

That did not seem to be the case for Cullen. He had stiffened when the other man’s ire had turned in their direction and even now, Dorian could see him settling his hand on the hilt of his sword. Signs of brewing disaster were everywhere. Cooler heads needed to prevail or nothing was going to be accomplished in this meeting.

“Yes, it’s all rather miraculous, isn’t it?” Dorian quipped, the corner of his mouth turning upward into a half-smile that flirted with transforming into a smirk. “A man from Tevinter who doesn’t agree with what a group of other Tevinters are doing. Rather like a Fereldan civilized enough to wear proper clothes. I’d assumed you were all uncouth barbarians who’d never seen a fork before, yet here you are, wearing trousers and using words instead of grunts. Wonders never cease.”

In retrospect, it was perhaps not the most politic thing he might have said, considering he was trying  _not_ to start a fight and he was in the company of a genuine barbarian, but the arsehole’s attitude was grating. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Cullen shooting him a flat look.  _Shit. I’m going to have to apologize for that later_.

“You—” Shoulders started, only for the woman with dark cropped hair to intervene.

“Carver!” She snapped, her Nevarran accent thick enough to be obvious from that single word. “That is enough.”

Mahanon was looking at Dorian with a pained expression, somewhere between apologetic and quelling. Unable to help himself, Dorian bristled a little at it, offended that some big muscle-bound oaf got to make ridiculous accusations and yet  _he_  was getting blamed for it.  When the elf spoke, however, it was directed to the room at large, which Dorian had to grudgingly admit that he appreciated.

“Isn’t there enough fighting already? Must we do it here too?” He looked to each person gathered around the table before his gaze settled on Shoulders. "Dorian isn't a member of the Venatori. He came here to stop them." Turning, he looked at Dorian. "Forgive Carver, please. He's recently from Kirkwall, where he's had a number of unpleasant experiences with Tevinter slavers."

Shoulders, now identified as Carver, snorted. "Yeah. Sure. If fighting off Tevinter bastards trying to capture one of my best friends is an  _unpleasant experience_."

Diplomacy, it appeared, would be more necessary than he’d first realized. "Ah, I see," Dorian murmured, before offering an olive branch. "I assure you, I'm neither slaver nor Venatori spy. My former mentor leads them and his son asked me to intervene."

"And how's that working out?" Carver challenged, not  _quite_ belligerently.

"Not very well," Dorian replied honestly. "Obviously. Or I wouldn't be here."

It was clear that they weren't on the path toward being the best of friends, but Carver subsided and the meeting proceeded without further insults. The Nevarran, introduced as Cassandra, sided with Carver—they wanted to recruit the templars first and then deal with the mages. The Inquisition's spymaster Leliana believed that driving the Venatori from Redcliffe before they established a stronger foothold took priority. The other woman, an Antivan named Josephine, spent more time trying to mediate the argument than she did offering her own opinions. Naturally, Dorian sided with Leliana and Cullen, after holding his silence for most of the discussion, finally lost his patience and interrupted to remind them that while they bickered, the hole in the sky was growing larger.

Aid came from the Herald’s camp. Mahanon agreed with Cullen, then took it one step further and threw his support into going back to Redcliffe. To the credit of everyone in the room, there wasn’t much disagreement after that. Dorian was expecting it, but Cassandra nodded her acceptance and after a particularly constipated look on Carver’s behalf, he too agreed to cooperate and rally his soldiers.

Ostensibly, it seemed as though the elf’s opinion carried so much weight because no one could come to a consensus about whether or not he truly was the divine instrument of Andraste. Dorian, on the other hand, believed it was for more pragmatic reasons that the assembled—presumable—experts deferred to him. Simply put, no one wanted the responsibility for tackling the problem or the blame when it inevitably went tits-up. Which was really the only way for it to go, as far as Dorian was concerned. Vestar might have had a vision from some spirit or other that suggested that he would know how to fix everything, but he didn’t. He absolutely did not have any bloody clue what to do, and as highly as he happened to think of himself, Dorian was pretty sure that even if he managed to talk sense into Gereon, it wasn’t going to be enough to patch a gigantic hole in the sky.

So as much as he wasn’t predisposed to following orders, Dorian was perfectly willing to let Mahanon take the lead on this one. Even Cullen seemed content to defer to him, though Dorian suspected that that had something to do with the comments he’d overheard him making about the Lady of the Skies when Mahanon had closed the rift back in that provincial chantry. Cullen might not have held belief in the Maker or Andraste, but he believed very strongly in his strange barbarian gods and he’d somehow linked whatever the thing was on the elf’s hand to one of them. Dorian didn’t understand it and hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with him privately about much of anything since their meeting with Felix, but it certainly made formulating a plan of attack easier than it might have otherwise been.

The unfortunate downside of all that agreeableness was that it got them back out on the road to Redcliffe that evening. Great for the business of solving the Venatori problem and absolutely dreadful for Dorian’s now dashed plans to have a rather sweaty, strenuous reconnection with his husband. As urgently as he wanted to shake sense into his old mentor, he was still a man in the prime of his life and he’d been denying his needs for weeks. To add insult to the injury done to his libido, Cullen took to the road as if he hadn’t been out of the hold in months. No complaints, no looks of frustrated longing, nothing. He volunteered to scout ahead and off he went with his beasts, leaving Dorian smack in the middle of the strangest group of people he had ever encountered.

And considering the Avvar, that was saying something.

Despite being an elf, Mahanon was friendly enough. He wasn’t effusively annoying, but he didn’t scowl at Dorian or make snide comments about Tevinter. He asked questions that were curious without being nosy and offered tidbits of his life among his wandering clan. Solas, the bald vagabond whose patched together ensemble made him look like he’d fit right in among the southern barbarians, supplied the snide comments, which Dorian parried with all the grace of someone who’d grown up attending magisterial parties full of vipers. And then there was the dwarf.

Varric was friendly enough, but Maker, he was a nosy bastard. He seemed to want to know everything. They could have been discussing what they intended to do when they got to Redcliffe, but Varric spent the time pestering Dorian with questions about Selkor and Falkyr, about Cullen and how a mage from Tevinter ended up traveling with an Avvar warrior and his weird animals.

Dorian answered some of it without much embellishment. Other questions he exaggerated just a  _little_  to make more exciting than they were. And others he dodged entirely. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed by Cullen—not any more than he usually was in the privacy of his own mind, anyway—but he didn’t know these people at all and wasn’t comfortable divulging every detail of his life to all and sundry. It didn’t help that Varric was a well-known writer of terribly trashy novels. The last thing Dorian needed was to pass through a bookshop one day and find a story of his life there for sale, preposterously overdone and outfitted with some scandalously bad cover art.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad way to pass the time, but it wasn’t quite how he wanted to be doing it either. Fucking Cullen aside, he really did need to talk to him about that supposed cure for the blight. They hadn’t gotten a chance to rejoin that discussion and now with an audience within earshot, Dorian wasn’t comfortable bringing it up. Of course it wasn’t possible. Dorian knew there was no such thing as a cure. But hope had an unfortunate tendency to trump rationality and although he  _knew_  it was more of the Avvar’s superstitious mumbo-jumbo, he wanted to believe it. And every one of these people would justifiably denounce it and take that hope away.

However, to have a conversation with Cullen required that Cullen be present and he was not. He was off in the underbrush racing Selkor through the hills or communing with nature or whatever he did when he went  _scouting_. Much like a wild animal, Dorian had no way to recall him and had to wait until he got tired of it and came back on his own.

It wasn’t until they reached Redcliffe that Cullen returned to his side, looking windblown and disgustingly unaffected by all the running around he’d done. There had been no incidents on the road, which led credence to the belief that they were walking into a trap. Neither Dorian nor Cullen had seen the spymaster’s people on the journey, but Mahanon was convinced that they were out there somewhere, doing whatever shady things they did under the cover of darkness. Everything seemed to be going according to plan.

And predictably, the plan got blown to the Void almost immediately.

* * *

“Let’s never do that again, shall we?” Dorian said some time later, after he had returned from the nightmarish future and Queen Anora had shown up, fashionably late, with her army and tossed them all out of Redcliffe on their ear.

Mahanon, who Dorian felt closer to after the hideous things they’d seen, was standing so close to Solas that they were practically breathing the same air. They were speaking in tones too low to understand, but from his strained expression, Dorian suspected that he was telling Solas about everything they’d experienced. He glanced up at the sound of Dorian’s voice and for a moment they shared a silent look that required no words to be understand:  _Never again._

All around them were the southern mages, milling about uncertainly, looking lost and worried despite Mahanon’s earlier assertion that they weren’t going to be prisoners of the Inquisition. Fiona, their leader, was doing her best to get them organized with the help of Leliana and her scouts. There was a contingent of Inquisition soldiers guarding their prisoner, though from the haggard, defeated expression on Gereon’s face when Dorian had caught a glimpse of him earlier in the shuffle of power, it didn’t look like he had any fight left in him.

“I’ll be sure to inform the magisterium that time travel is off the party schedule for the foreseeable future,” Felix murmured to Dorian, the side of his mouth quirked into a small half-smile.

For a man who’d just witnessed his father getting arrested after trying to aid in the destruction of the world, he was taking the whole thing remarkably well. Dorian couldn’t suppress the swell of affection he felt toward his old friend at that, appreciating the levity more than he could possibly express. He could still feel the nauseating pull of the red lyrium and hear the sickening song that it had whispered with insidious persuasion into his mind. And he knew that when he closed his eyes tonight, he would be seeing horrors instead of pleasant dreams.

“Are you certain you have to go?” he asked, frowning as the meaning of Felix’s words broke through his lingering unease. 

“Of course,” Felix responded immediately. “Someone has to tell the magisterium what’s going on. The Venatori began in Tevinter. It’s Tevinter’s duty to stop them.”

“So write them a letter,” Dorian returned. “Ask Maevaris to read it to them.”

Felix chuckled and Dorian was hit with the alarming sense that that would be the last time he would ever see him do it. Gereon’s last words to his son before he was taken away lingered in Dorian’s ears, plaintive and achingly sad.

“You know I can’t,” he told him, laying a hand gently on Dorian’s arm. “It’ll be okay.”  _You’ll be okay,_ he was saying, the meaning hovering beneath that general assurance like the whisper of a faraway spirit.

There was understanding and acceptance in Felix’s eyes. He knew he was going to die. He always had. And somewhere along the line, he’d made peace with it in his quietly graceful way. It was the kind of poise Dorian and most of Tevinter’s magisters played at possessing, but Felix had it naturally, and because those without magically ability were often marginalized and ignored, so few realized it.

He knew that his role was to play along, to smile and agree that all would be well. And maybe he should have done it, for Felix’s sake if not his own dignity. But he couldn’t. The words jammed in his throat, all but choking him.

“No,” he hissed softly. “It won’t be.”

Desperately, he wrenched his gaze away from Felix and looked at Cullen, who had taken up a defensive position at his side since his return from the future and hadn’t left it. Words were often unnecessary with Felix. And thankfully, he had grown close enough to Cullen that they weren’t needed here either.

Easing forward, Cullen clapped a hand on Felix’s shoulder. “The lowlanders have misled you, Felix Alexius. The sickness within you can be overcome.”

Part of Dorian hated himself for this. He hadn’t been able to discuss it further with Cullen. He had no idea how the Avvar had come to believe it or what evidence Cullen could provide that might convince him that it was possible. Yet there he was, selfishly baiting a hook with hope and praying that Felix still had enough will to live that he would take it. All because he didn’t want to lose his best friend. Because there were horrors and monsters aplenty in the world and only one person as kind and  _good_  as Felix.

He watched Felix’s eyes widen, watched disbelief and the startled amusement of someone who believed that a joke was being played at his expense pass across his face. And then, there it was. Just a glimmer, but it was hope.

“What?”

“Journey to Haven with us,” Cullen said softly. “Allow us to rid you of this blight.”

Felix stared at Cullen for a moment more, then shifted his attention to Dorian. “Dorian, what is he talking about?”

_Lie. Lie to him. Do whatever you need to do to get him to agree_. The impulse to do it was strong, but even with so much at stake, he couldn’t do it. They’d never lied to each other before. Starting now, regardless of his intentions, would be unworthy of him.

“I...” Dorian shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know. Cullen claims that the Avvar know a way to cure the blight.” At times like these, he hated honesty more than he could say. “We haven’t had time to discuss it, but Felix, if there’s a chance, surely you must  _try_.”

Cullen gave him a sideways glance that was both exasperated and faintly indignant. “Simply because it is not your way does not make it a  _claim_.” 

Ordinarily, Dorian might have taken the mild rebuke as it was intended, but this wasn’t a matter of cultural misunderstanding. This was his friend’s  _life_. Leaving it in the hands of people who covered themselves in mud, enchanted though it might have been, without extensive discussion and investigation went against every fiber of is being. He was opening his mouth to make a snide, rather unhelpful remark when Felix, obviously knowing what was coming, intervened.

“How is it done?” he asked, his quiet voice as calm as Dorian knew his own wouldn’t be if their circumstances were reversed.

A few seconds of silence passed as Cullen stared Dorian down, then ended as he turned his attention back to Felix. “The gods abhor the blight. It is unnatural. Only they can fight it where it can be conquered.”

It was clear that Felix wasn’t quite following him from the puzzled downturn of his mouth. Dorian couldn’t blame him. He knew that Cullen meant possession and even he wasn’t certain what he was talking about. “I told you he talks like this,” he muttered to Felix. “It doesn’t get any more understandable or direct when you marry him.”

Felix smiled a little at that, though since Cullen was standing right there, he was diplomatic enough to keep it discreet. Unlike Dorian, he tended to care when decent people caught him in the middle of mocking them. It was obvious by the way his face started to tighten that he meant to ask for clarification and Dorian, foreseeing the descent into a circular conversation whereby Cullen only confused him more than he already was, decided to rescue him.

"Possession," he said, interrupting whatever nonsense Cullen was about to start obliquely referencing. "He means that the Avvar let spirits possess them and somehow that's meant to cure them."

Predictably, his friend's eyes narrowed in a mixture of surprise and alarm. Unlike the insane contingent of Tevinter-born mages, the Alexius family had very firm beliefs where the subjects of spirits, possession, abominations, and blood magic were concerned.

"You would not come to harm," Cullen reassured him, easily reading the fear for what it was. "One of the gods would aid you."

"Spirit," Dorian translated, after heaving a sigh. "He means it would be a spirit. Not a demon."

That got another flat look. Dorian returned it with one of his own. And then, not content with trying to impart information nonverbally when Cullen was in one of his stubbornly resistant moods, he added in exasperation, "Honestly, Cullen. He's from Tevinter, not one of your barbarian tribes. He doesn't speak mud and fur. Use words that actually make sense in a sentence."

Cullen sighed as if his was a burden too heavy to carry. Or like they were both idiots. It was difficult to tell. Dorian rolled his eyes, then folded his arms across his chest and stared at him. Typically when he employed these measures, it was like trying to will a mountain to pick up and relocate. Cullen tended to blithely ignore all of his suggestions, pointed, subtle, or otherwise, and continue on doing whatever aggravating thing he was doing with not a care for how frustrating he was.

Perhaps it was because the world was ending and the Maker felt that one or two miracles would not be remiss, because after a moment, Cullen said with uncharacteristic straightforwardness, "If you will permit him to do so, Selkor has offered to deal with the blight himself."

_That_  was surprising even to Dorian, who looked sharply from Cullen to Selkor. The lion was sitting a short distance away, ears pricked and, from the look of it, watching something on the horizon. It was the kind of stance that in a person would suggest obliviousness to being discussed. Because it was a possessed lion with exceptional hearing, Dorian suspected that it was a carefully affected act of nonchalance.

"The lion wants to possess me?" Felix asked slowly, drawing Dorian's attention away from Selkor.

Although Dorian didn’t know Selkor the way that Cullen did, he felt it prudent to field this one before Cullen’s frustrating non-answers ruined what might be the only chance to save Felix’s life. Dorian would be heartbroken when it failed and Felix inevitably died, but there were no words that would accurately describe the way he would feel if this truly was the long-sought cure and he let disbelief and the absurdity of the idea convince him, and Felix, not to try.

“The lion wasn’t want to  _possess_  you, Felix,” he told him, his voice low and calm in reassurance. “He wants to  _help_  you. To do that...” He tipped his head back and forth as he shrugged a shoulder. “Yes, he’s going to need to possess you.”

Hearing himself saying the words, Dorian thought they sounded confident, which he wasn’t, but not terribly reassuring, which he was desperately trying to be. He wasn’t the sort of man who was given toward the indignity of begging, but he thought that for Felix, he might be willing to make an exception. He just  _really_  didn’t want to do it if he could avoid it.

“But it isn’t like what we’re used to in Tevinter,” he hastened to explain. Cullen certainly wouldn’t have done it. “Avvar mages invite spirits to live with them in order to learn their craft. And presumably the spirit also learns something too, though Maker knows what that might be.”

“Life,” Cullen interjected softly. “The gods learn what it is to be alive.”

Dorian and Felix exchanged a glance, though the look Felix shot him was somewhat doubtful.

“When the lessons have been imparted, the spirit leaves and the mage goes on with his or her life. It’s all very joyous and peaceful,” Dorian said, smiling just a little as he remembered witnessing one of the parting ceremonies of mage and teacher spirit.

There’d been quite a lot of singing and dancing, as well as more storytelling about rocks and snow and that time a leaf got blown from a branch and all the Avvar went to war because the gods were obviously angry about something. Possibly there had been another reason for all the battles and heroic deeds, but Dorian had never quite managed to develop the skill necessary to follow which god did which thing and why anybody actually cared. Typically when the stories started, he’d taken to drinking the dreadful swill they called ale or seeing if he could discreetly work his hand under Cullen’s loincloth and  _convince_  him to retire early from the celebration of whatever glorious event of nature or physical prowess they were using as an excuse to throw a party. As it turned out, he was in fact quite convincing and his powers of persuasion had yet to fail him.

“No one is harmed. And as near as I can tell, there aren’t any unfortunate side-effects of the temporary cohabitation.” In this, Dorian  _was_  confident. He’d looked for them, warily waiting for the Avvar’s determination to meddle in something they couldn’t understand to come back and bite them in the arse in the worst way. But there’d been no demons and none of the mages he’d come to know had suffered through any personality changes that might have suggested the spirit hadn’t truly gone back to the Fade.

Felix still wasn’t looking convinced. “Why would he want to do this? He doesn’t know me.”

“No, he does not,” Cullen agreed matter-of-factly. “But family is greater than familiarity. Among the Avvar, we fight for the members of our family who cannot fight and beside those who can.” He nodded toward Dorian without looking at him, speaking as easily about this as if he were commenting on whether it was going to storm later or not. “Dorian is family. That makes you family as well.”

It was embarrassing how quickly Dorian’s chest tightened to hear that. By now, he was  _well_  aware of Cullen’s feelings for him. And it was rather impossible to pretend that the animals felt nothing when they’d both forsaken their home to travel with him into the north. Though, Dorian did his level best to pretend anyway, rationalizing it as projecting a person’s feelings and motivations onto them to explain their actions. As animals, it wasn’t possible that they understood the ramifications of what they were doing or the unknown dangers they might be facing accompanying the humans like this. Unfortunately, the part of Dorian that was a stubborn, contrary bastard liked to disagree with his carefully constructed logic.

But knowing someone cared about him wasn’t the same as hearing it so baldly asserted.  _That_  was still new to him. That Cullen felt no shame in proclaiming him his  _family_  while simultaneously appearing proud enough of that to claim kinship with a person he’d never met simply because Dorian loved him was so alien that it was nearly bewildering. And for even the  _lion_  to feel that way? It was a lot to swallow.

Dorian tried. He nearly choked getting the mouthful of spit down past the lump in his throat, but in the end, he managed it. Literally, anyway. Metaphorically, he was still struggling with it.

Perceptive as always, Felix looked at him before Cullen finished talking. Dorian was mildly disturbed to see the knowing gleam in his dark eyes, like he knew exactly what was going through his mind.  _Maker, but you’re a brat_ , Dorian thought sourly. And Felix, the little shit, had the audacity to grin at him.

The grin lasted only a few seconds before it faded into thoughtfulness. “Would you do it?” Felix asked after a moment’s silence.

“What? Fight the blight?” That wasn’t what Felix was asking and Dorian knew it, but he kept his voice light and careless as he continued to deliberately misunderstand. “Of course I would.”

Felix rolled his eyes. When that didn’t produce the desired results, or  _any_  results, he sighed. Dorian ignored that too. It was a game they’d played often enough, needling each other through stubbornness and the sudden onset of willful stupidity. Felix’s expression began taking on an exasperated air and when he opened his mouth to clarify, Dorian conceded the point and gave in.

“Yes.” Was it selfish to try to sway Felix’s decision? Probably. Dorian didn’t care. He’d never claimed to be selfless and he wasn’t willing to give up on Felix. He never would be. “Strange as it sounds and impossible as it probably is, yes, I would do it.”

And he would no doubt be terrified, though he would never admit it. But Dorian didn’t want to die and in effort to keep himself alive, he knew he’d be willing to try anything short of blood magic to fight off death’s grasp.

“The dead guide the living through memory,” Cullen murmured. “The living change the world.” He glanced up pointedly at the hole in the sky, spitting green fire into the night high above them. Then he met Felix’s eyes. “The world needs you, Felix Alexius. The dead can wait to welcome you.”

For what felt like an age, Felix looked at them, from Cullen to Dorian, then back again to start the scrutiny all over again. Once or twice, Dorian noticed his gaze shift sideways to take in Selkor. He wanted to say something more, but it was like his entire body was paralyzed. The pleas and appeals to sense and, more selfishly, love collected unspoken in his throat. Foolish though it might have been, he was terrified that if he spoke or moved or even breathed, it would push Felix toward refusal.

If Cullen felt the same way, Dorian couldn’t tell. He said nothing further and he didn’t move either, but Dorian suspected that it was less out of superstitious fear and more because it was in Cullen’s nature to patiently await these life-altering decisions. Felix had the information he needed to make the choice and Cullen, whether he agreed with it or not, would respect it.

“All right,” Felix said finally, breaking the silence so abruptly that Dorian twitched. He sounded as dubious as he looked, but that didn’t take away from the elation and relief that surged through Dorian. “I’ll do it.”

Focusing on Dorian, he fixed him with an implacable stare. “And you’re going to help me figure out how to convince the magisterium to aid the Inquisition despite my absence.”

That might have been more impossible than curing the blight, but Dorian broke out in a smile. “Of course. We’ll get started on that right away.”

Uncertainty pulled at the corner of Felix’s mouth, but he didn’t say anything more about it. He just stared at Dorian for a few seconds more, before focusing on Cullen. “When do we do this?”

“When we reach Haven,” Cullen said decisively. “We will need privacy to conduct the ceremony and there is none to be found here.” In case it wasn’t obvious what he was talking about, he gestured to the throngs of people on either side of them. None of them were paying attention at the moment, but if spirits started possessing people, no doubt someone was bound to take notice.   

Felix nodded, then muttered under his breath, “Okay. My father gets arrested for trying to destroy the world and I get possessed by a lion. Great.”

* * *

By this point in his life, Dorian knew that it was stupid to expect that things would go as planned. No matter how meticulously he tried to anticipate for possible problems, something inexplicable or unexpected always happened to cock everything up. But he’d assumed that it wouldn’t be terribly difficult to get his best friend possessed and then have time afterward to fuck his husband. It happened all the time in Tevinter. Sometimes even more than once in a given night.

In the south, however, nothing was that simple.

They got back to Haven without incident, but Dorian's dreams of disappearing into the confusion were dashed as soon as they passed through the gate. The people in charge that he'd been introduced to on the first visit were clustered just inside, visibly lying in wait, and looking rather more angry and upset than they'd appeared prior to confronting Alexius. Mahanon sighed under his breath, sounding as though he was so exhausted he was going to collapse in a heap before he made it to the chantry. And Dorian, in a mystifying fit of concern, trailed after him and the unhappy Inquisition officials instead of skipping out on the drama like he knew he ought to be doing.

When he glanced apologetically over his shoulder at Cullen and Felix, Cullen simply gestured him onward with one of those easy, accepting nods and Felix was too busy looking around the town to notice. Trusting Cullen to take care of him, and to not start the ritual without him, Dorian nonchalantly followed the gloomy procession up the hill to the chantry. He lingered outside for a bit, casually listening to everybody shouting about mages and why they weren't to be trusted or brought into the Inquisition, and tried not to get offended.

Southern Thedas was a backward, tasteless place with strange notions and even stranger people, but the prevalence of its ignorant fear of magic was mind-boggling.  _It's no wonder they're all worshipping dogs and dressing in rags_ , he thought, sniffing disdainfully.  _They haven't the sense of a half-mad dracolisk._ The elf, though, he wasn't so bad. The one with all the hair, anyway; the bald one was offensive on a number of levels, not the least of which was his atrocious attire.

Mahanon stood up to Hawke as he barked nonsense, didn't back down from his insistence that the mages join the cause, and rather diplomatically for someone not raised to hold his own against bloodthirsty magisters told them all to take their heads out of their arses. Dorian was grinning to himself about that when he sauntered in, interrupting their argument, and offered to stay on for a while longer. Hawke looked like he wanted to personally escort him out of the town, but Mahanon, proving yet again to be the most sensible one of the lot, took him up on it.

And a good thing, too, because Dorian wasn't able to imagine Cullen agreeing to leave dealing with the hole in the sky to someone else if the Inquisition had run them off.

He was in relatively upbeat spirits when he left Mahanon to his cranky associates and descended into the heart of the village in search of his family, unsure of where to begin. They hadn't been in the place long enough to have received quarters anywhere, nor had there been time to familiarize himself with the various points of interest that might ensnare a visiting academic from the north. Maker only knew where Cullen might be. Loping through the nearby forest with Selkor to stretch his legs, perhaps, or venturing out onto the frozen lake to engage in some stupidly death-defying Avvar exercises.

Prepared to waste time better spent doing other things, Dorian was pleasantly surprised to spot Felix within minutes of leaving the chantry. He was talking to the merchant, wrapped up in a distinctly Fereldan cloak that he must have purchased from the man. Fearing that the man was corrupting his best friend into loathsomely unfashionable, dog-worshiping ways, Dorian hastened over and rescued him. Together, they traveled back outside the village's walls on Felix's direction and collected Cullen, who'd evidently been entertaining himself by discussing craftsmanship with the local blacksmith like he'd been forging swords all of his life.

"Neither of you could be bothered to secure us civilized accommodations, could you?" Dorian muttered in disgruntlement as they trudged through the snow.

"Wasn't that what you were doing with your new friend?" Felix shot back mildly, one eyebrow raised. In anyone else, it might have sounded dreadfully catty. Coming from Felix, Dorian knew it for the tease that it was. "Requesting that an estate be prepared for your illustrious personage?"

Cullen, humorless bastard that he was, cut in before Dorian could respond with something suitably pithy. "What need have we for other lodgings when we've a perfectly suitable tent to share?"

Dorian shot him a sharp glance, but it was impossible to tell whether he was saying that nonsense in earnest or if he was jesting. "It's a  _tent_ , Cullen," he pointed out, deciding to err on the side of caution and assume the ridiculous question was a serious one. "A drafty, uncomfortable tent. After so long on the road, I'd much prefer actual walls, a fireplace, and a decent bed."

As if they were old friends with years of familiarity between one another, Felix smirked up at Cullen. "Ignore him. He's just put out that you won't be able to ravish him if I'm in there."

" _Felix!"_  Dorian hissed, voice wavering between scandalized hilarity and mildly affronted embarrassment.

But Cullen simply laughed. Great, booming laughter as he slung one of his arms around Felix's shoulders. Refusing to let himself be charmed by the image, Dorian scowled disapprovingly at them both. It was a valiant attempt to save face and pretend himself immune to sentimentality, but it was done in vain. They ignored him utterly.

Much to Dorian's consternation, they  _did_  spend the night in the tent. And Felix was right, of course; there was a hugely disappointing lack of ravishment. But the additional body meant that the interior of the tent was warmer than it would have otherwise been, even with the presence of the animals, and though they couldn't walk around freely, they had all of the privacy they might have wanted to complete the ritual.

Whether it was due to the absence of an Avvar shaman or an attempt to set the lowlanders' minds at ease, Cullen didn't make a spectacle out of the whole ordeal. There wasn't any of that eerie blue fire or whirlwind of rasping voices whispering strange things at the edge of Dorian's hearing that he'd grown accustomed to whenever Avvar magic was being cast. Unsurprising given that Cullen wasn't a mage, but the spirit within Selkor had something of a sense of humor. Dorian wouldn't have put it past it to use a smidgen of its power to add a dramatic flair to the proceedings.

Perhaps the fact that it didn't was proof that Felix truly was in good... well... paws.

Unlike the horrific possessions that inevitably occurred in Tevinter, this one happened so subtly that if Dorian hadn't been aware of it, or a mage of impressive skill, he might not have even noticed. Selkor had slunk into the tent almost as soon as they'd gotten settled and had laid down alongside Felix like an overgrown house cat. It hadn't taken long for Felix's fingers to find their way into his fur and he spent the better part of an hour absently stroking the lion's side. By the time Cullen inquired if Felix was ready to begin, he was relaxed and comfortable enough with Selkor's presence not to be terribly anxious.

At least, he seemed remarkably calm and unconcerned about it to Dorian, who was watching him like Falkyr enjoyed watching rodents scurry across the ground. If anything went wrong, if Felix so much as twitched in a way that suggested alarm or discomfort or start of an unpleasant transformation into an eldritch horror, Dorian was going to put a stop to it. Quite possibly Felix knew that and was, as was his obnoxiously selfless wont, trying to set his mind at ease instead of worrying about himself.

_Or maybe he knows he hasn't anything else to lose_ , a pessimistic voice whispered darkly in the depths of Dorian's mind.  _A quick, painless death to avoid becoming an abomination is better than the slow agony that the blight has in store for him._

Shoving the thought away, Dorian shook his head. And caught sight of Selkor doing the same thing. It was such a mundane gesture that he nearly ignored it, but then he saw Felix rapidly blinking his eyes. A sharp glance at Cullen, who nodded with a slight upward cant of his mouth, confirmed his suspicion that the transfer had taken place.

"Felix?" he asked carefully, itching to touch his friend's arm and yet not quite able to do so.

Felix looked at him, the movement just slightly  _off._  "Yes?"

There wasn't anything unusual with the sound of his voice, but Dorian peered warily at him just the same. "Are you quite all right?"

"Hm?" He paused, seeming to consider the question, and finally, as Dorian was tensing to demand he answer him  _right this instant_ , he smiled. "Yes, I think I am. It's—I'm not certain I can describe it. Different.  _Fascinating._ "

Conversing with abominations wasn't something Dorian did on the regular. Not even in Tevinter, where such states were unfortunately more common than they ought to have been. He didn't know what he should have been searching for in Felix's eyes, yet though he studied them more intently than perhaps he'd ever done with anything else, he could find no trace of another presence in there with him.

"You're staring, Dorian," Felix told him mildly, after his scrutiny continued long past an acceptably polite span of time.

"You're possessed, Felix," he shot back immediately.

Like an adult wading into a petty argument between children, Cullen spoke before Felix could put together a rebuttal or Dorian could add something further. "Did I not assure you that all would be well?"

He had. Felix hummed a note that sounded entirely too serene for the occasion, leaving Dorian to be the sensible one. "Yes, but—"

Cullen waved his protest away. "Be at ease and trust in the gods. Felix will be well soon enough and all will be as it was."

That was easier said than done, not simply because of his past experience with creatures from the Fade taking over bodies that didn't belong to them, but also because Felix was his  _friend_. He would have had fewer qualms and considerably less concern over a mere acquaintance sharing space with a spirit than someone for whom he actually cared. Dorian treated them both to a suspiciously dubious stare, though in the interest of giving Felix time to adjust to his new state without being hounded by questions, he subsided into silence.

_Tomorrow,_ he promised himself.  _After we've all had the chance to rest, I'll speak with him further._  Patience didn't come easily in the best of times and this was far from the best of anything, but if Felix could comport himself with grace and dignity in the face of his approaching death for literal years, Dorian trusted that he would be able to keep his mouth shut and his questions to himself for a measly twelve hours.

Most of them fell asleep not too terribly long after the spirit-exchange. Selkor—the lion, not the spirit—continued to behave like no wild animal Dorian had ever encountered, choosing to remain lying in the tent at Felix's side as if they were old friends instead of departing the enclosure for the snowy wilderness beyond its deplorably thin fabric walls. Felix slipped quickly into a meditative silence that, judging by the slow rise and fall of his chest, eventually melted into true slumber. For his part, Cullen simply made himself comfortable beside Dorian, wrapped his arm around him, and nodded off. But despite being exhausted and emotionally wrung out, Dorian couldn't quiet his racing thoughts enough to follow suit.

Wondering what was going on inside Felix's head, as well as pondering the benefits of benevolent possession, kept his mind alert until the rest of tent's occupants had fallen asleep. It was as much genuinely curious interest as it was a diversionary tactic. Because as soon as he started to sink into unconsciousness, memories of what he'd seen in Alexius' nightmarish future assailed him and jerked him back to wakefulness.

His heart was pounding furiously. He was breathing too fast, his chest too tight to allow sufficient air into his lungs. He tried to settle himself in the present, tried to assure himself that it had just been a dream—at worst, just a memory—he'd been seeing. But the instant he closed his eyes, all he could see was...

"What is it?" Cullen murmured by his ear, startling him out of the beginning of another unwanted nightmare.

_Fasta vaas_. He hadn't meant to wake him. Cullen may not have exhibited any signs of exhaustion during their travels, but Dorian wasn't fooled by the aura of tireless invincibility Avvar seemed to exude at every opportunity.

Dorian licked his lips, finding them to be as dry as his throat. "Unpleasant dreams," he whispered back when he found his voice, not wishing to disturb Felix's rest too.

"Release them," Cullen responded, following his unsolicited advice with a gentle nudge of his nose against Dorian's ear. "They will not trouble you then."

More Avvar mysticism. Being tired and emotionally uneasy made him irritable and prone to snapping, though for Cullen's sake, Dorian did his best to keep a tight leash on his sharp tongue. "It doesn't work like that for me, Cullen."

"Still, I would share the burden with you."

_Of course you would. It would never occur to you that perhaps I mean to keep such burdens off your shoulders._ Perhaps what he and Mahanon had seen in the future carried the clues the Inquisition would need to ensure that such horror never came to pass. And if that was the case, then Dorian would consider nightmares and flashes of unpleasant sights he'd much rather never see again well worth the price of that knowledge. However, that did not mean that he wished to share the misery and worry Cullen with it. And Cullen would worry. Dorian knew that he would.

Unfortunately, he also knew that Cullen would worry if he didn't tell him what troubled him.

"It's..." How might he tell him without actually  _telling_  him? Dorian gave a tiny shake of his head, just enough movement that Cullen would be able to feel it in the darkness. "The things I saw in the world Alexius' foolishness created are not easily forgotten."

Cullen's next inhale caused his arm to slightly shift against Dorian's side. Without needing to hear the words, he knew what was coming. "What did you see?"

"A sky torn apart. Familiar faces turned monstrous and strange by whatever madness this red lyrium has unleashed."  _There. That ought to do it. Informative enough for him to draw his own conclusions. Vague enough for my tastes._

Throughout the exchange, Cullen's hand had been resting against his abdomen. Now, Dorian could feel the subtle pressure of the tips of his fingers stroking soothingly back and forth across his stomach. He knew. Of course he knew. For a barbarian, the man's perceptiveness was eerie.

"I am not what the magic showed you," he told him softly.

Handsome face torn by razor-sharp protrusions of red crystal. Muscular body misshapen and warped into something grotesque. One golden eye gleaming a lurid, malevolent red. Harsh, inhuman voice growling his name. Dorian blinked the vision away and reached under the blankets to clasp Cullen's hand.

"Of that,  _amatus_ , I am well aware." And extraordinarily grateful, too, though he chose to keep that bit of sentimentality to himself. He allowed for a moment just to feel it: gratitude that Cullen had not been harmed, love for the great oaf of a man, relief and a quiet sort of joy that they were there together, alive and well and perhaps, if the Avvar solution to the blight wasn't fanciful nonsense, able to share that life with Felix. When his emotions threatened to overwhelm him, he cleared his throat and adopted a lighter tone. "Given time, the memories will fade."  _I hope_. "It's still just a bit too fresh in my mind right now. That's all."

It wasn't a lie, and after a short silence, Cullen accepted it without further prying. He tightened his hold around Dorian's middle, tucked his face in against the back of his neck, and murmured something so muffled that it was impossible to determine what it was. Something affectionate, perhaps, or a declaration of his intention to guard Dorian against everything the world might send his way. Knowing Cullen, it might have been even more outrageous than all of that. It was just as well that he hadn't heard it. He might have laughed himself into never falling asleep that night.

And it was on the heels of that mild amusement that Dorian managed to drop off into sleep after all.

* * *

It wasn't until they were strolling along the dirt paths of Haven, trying to soak in the lukewarm light of the afternoon sun, that Dorian realized that there was a rather large flaw in his plan to ply Felix with questions. The little village was teeming with soldiers and Inquisition recruits. They'd passed twelve people already and they hadn't even reached the tavern yet. It wasn't a matter of  _if_  they were overheard but  _when_ , and although Dorian didn't possess a scholar's wealth of information about the workings of the south, he knew that if anyone found out that he was possessed, Felix would be killed.

Which meant speaking of everything  _but_  the one thing about which he wanted to discuss. He wouldn't even agree to chance it and speak strictly in Tevene. There was a possibility, however remote, that someone in the mottled group would be able to understand it.

"We can speak of personal matters later," Felix assured him, after the fourth irritated huff he expelled.

"Yes, yes," Dorian waved it away. "I'm aware. Worrying after your health has become such a habit over the years, I find myself unable to stop."

Laughing at the comment, Felix patted him on the shoulder in mock consolation. "If it'll set your mind at ease, I can go break my ankle." Whatever Selkor—the spirit, not the lion—was doing on the inside, it didn't appear to be affecting Felix's personality. He was behaving the same as he always did.

Dorian snorted. "Please. My healing abilities may not be up to par, but I'm fully capable of healing something  _that_ simple."

Felix grinned. Were it not for the chill in the air, the snow covered mountains, the giant hole in the sky, and the hideous architecture, it would've been easy for Dorian to mistake the moment as being back in Tevinter, strolling down one of the wide avenues of Minrathous as they casually mocked a magister neither of them particularly liked. It had been years since Dorian had seen Felix's face so full of color. It was hard not to stare.

"I need an affliction far more drastic before you'll care, do I?" Felix teased, leaving him to wonder anew how someone suffering from such a horrible condition could make jokes about it so readily.

"Perhaps what you need is a case of—" The sudden onset of discretion caused Dorian to trail off into silence.

They were coming up the hill toward the chantry, well within view of Carver Hawke, who was in the midst of elbowing his way out of the building. There were about a dozen large rolls of parchment pinned between his chest and his arms and his hands were full of papers. Despite being the commander of the army, there were no aides accompanying him and none of the clerics loitering around outside gossiping took notice of his plight or offered to help him with the door or his armload.

Although he didn't smile outwardly, Dorian didn't bother trying to squash the petty amusement that welled up within him at the sight of the miserable bastard struggling.  _Serves you right for being such an intolerant ass._

Felix, on the other hand, had yet to meet the man. "Would you like a hand with that?" he called out, naively goodhearted to a fault.

Hawke spared only an instant to glance in their direction before he turned away. Then, strangely, he looked again and to Dorian's surprise, stumbled over something in the path and dropped everything he'd been carrying. Parchment tubes went rolling down the hill toward the lopsided square as the wind scattered the loose sheets everywhere.

Dorian pressed his lips together against a bark of laughter, knowing that letting it out would only serve as fuel for Hawke's dislike. However, there was nothing to be done about the smirk that was campaigning across his face, turning up the corners of his mouth. He looked at Hawke, expecting to see a scowl at the very least, and received his second surprise in as many minutes.

There was no irritation or embarrassment in Hawke's expression. He wasn't paying any attention to the parchment getting away from him, much less to Dorian. Instead, he was staring, outright  _staring_ , at Felix.

In spite of the sudden flood of panic rushing through him that Hawke's templar sensibilities had detected Felix's possession, Dorian was careful to give his friend only the most casual of glances. To his eyes, there was nothing out of the ordinary to see. No manifestation of horns or glowing eyes or demonic claws. Just Felix, appearing healthier than he was accustomed to seeing him but otherwise completely normal, looking up toward Hawke with a polite, friendly smile.

Slowly, Dorian's attention shifted back to Hawke. He was still staring at Felix. And after a careful examination of his expression, Dorian could find no alarm or outrage there, which were two emotions he would have thought a southern templar would be experiencing in spades in the presence of an abomination. But he didn't look angry or disgusted or righteously repulsed. He just looked stunned.

Underneath the automatic paranoia that came with doing something that might at the very least lead to arrest, a suspicious inkling came to life.

Obviously Felix didn't share any of Dorian's suspicions, dire or otherwise, because he was hurrying after a few sheets of parchment that were currently making a bid for freedom past him. Snatching them out of the air, he shuffled them together without even glancing at them, bent down to scoop up a sheet that had gotten caught on a rock, and carried them over to Hawke. Who was still looking at him with that peculiar, dumbfounded expression.

"Crinkled the corners a bit there," Felix was saying as he offered the papers to Hawke. "Sorry about that." 

And it was then, as he treated Hawke to that crooked, mischievous grin that had always led to the two of them getting neck deep into trouble, that Dorian caught sight of the faintest flush of color rising to the commander’s pale skin.

"Um," Hawke said, demonstrating the paltry intelligence Dorian expected from a person that worshiped filthy, flea-bitten dogs. He took the papers like he was reaching for a hissing viper, extremely slow and careful. "Thanks."

"Felix Alexius," Felix continued without missing a beat, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had no idea that he was having an effect on Hawke. The grin got wider. "Just came in with the recruits from Redcliffe."

_Poor bastard's really in for it now,_  Dorian thought gleefully, nonchalantly edging closer to get a better view of the drama. Really, he knew that he ought to stay out of it. Felix was perfectly capable of handling himself; if anyone needed a rescue, it was clearly Hawke. But Dorian hadn't had the opportunity to instigate anything for what seemed like ages. It was simply too tempting to resist.

"Ah, Commander," he called, sashaying up to them like Hawke was an old friend he hadn't seen in months. "Still ferreting out Tevinter spies, I see."

It probably shouldn't have been gratifying to know that he could be so irritating that Hawke couldn't resist glaring at him despite his obvious desire to stand there basking in Felix's marvelous presence, but when that narrow-eyed scowl was leveled on him, Dorian just smiled beatifically back.

"You're the Inquisition's commander?" Felix asked, sounding so genuinely interested in the answer that Dorian couldn't determine whether he was trying to play mediator or if he actually cared. "I believe I owe you my thanks, in that case."

Hawke's attention snapped back to Felix so fast it was a wonder he didn't break his neck. "Um."

_Maker help him,_ Dorian thought with barely concealed hilarity.  _It's like the poor fool's forgotten how to speak._

"Thanks." It sounded more like a question than a statement. Perhaps Hawke recognized that, or realized that he'd just repeated himself, because he hastily cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, what? Why?"

He was going to ruin it. Even with his best efforts to smother it into silence, he could feel the laughter rising in his throat. And once he started, he wasn't going to be able to stop. Dorian didn't care about Hawke's feelings in the slightest. In fact, he thought being laughed at might actually give the blustering idiot a little much needed perspective. But Felix just might have been given a new lease on life and if he wanted to make a friend of the fellow—or more, Maker help him, if he was even remotely considering returning some of the interest Hawke clearly had in him—then Dorian wasn't going to screw it all up for him.

"I'll just leave the two of you to get acquainted, shall I?" Dorian murmured, giving Felix a pat on the shoulder and Hawke a warning glare thinly veiled by a friendly smile.

No doubt Hawke failed to recognize it for what it was. It was highly likely that he wasn't even aware that Dorian was still standing there. Felix, however, knew what he was doing. Dorian could see it in his eyes when he glanced over at him. Instead of looking put out over the meddling, though, he appeared comfortable with being abandoned to the clumsy oaf's attention. Relaxed, even, as if he were enjoying the attention. And from a certain angle, it was wholly understandable. When he didn’t open his mouth, Carver Hawke was a very attractive man, so much so that it was almost possible to forget that he was a Fereldan templar. Unfortunately, once he started speaking, the illusion was completely shattered.

_You married a Fereldan barbarian_ , Dorian reminded himself as he left his best friend and his would-be paramour to get acquainted.  _You're in no place to judge any decisions Felix might make on the matter._ Try  _to remember that later_.

Although he wasn't always honest with others, Dorian was occasionally honest with himself. Somewhat less occasionally when he was sober than when he wasn't, but a legitimate moment of self-reflection or two had been known to slip through his carefully constructed defenses. One managed to wriggle through then, as he returned to the village square and paused to consider where he might best waste a bit of time: the tavern with its inferior wine and disgusting ale or on a meandering quest to locate his husband and lure him into providing some needed personal attention.

He was well aware that he  _would_  remember his own choices when next he conversed with Felix. No doubt those choices would be lounging nearby, in all their fur and feather-covered glory. But that awareness wouldn't prevent him from engaging in a little good-natured teasing. And perhaps a word of caution or ten. Not that Felix would require it; for all that he enjoyed getting into trouble, he was one of the most responsible people Dorian knew. But the last thing anyone needed to deal with when the world was ending was the vacuum of power that would be created by Dorian murdering the commander of the Inquisition for the unforgivable crime of hurting Felix's feelings.

And after everything Felix had been through, Dorian would burn alive anyone who  _dared_  to harm him.

Tempting though the prospect of alcohol was to him, however inadequate for his refined palate it happened to be, locating Cullen won out without too much deliberation. And that might have been an inordinately frustrating task, were it not for the sound of battle emanating from beyond the wall. Where there were warriors fighting, there was usually Cullen right in the middle of it, and when Dorian made his way out to the training grounds, he saw that that held true whether he was inside the Frostback Basin or outside it.

Wearing practically nothing in defiance of the snow flurries fluttering through the air and the thick grey clouds hovering overhead promising a serious snowstorm sooner rather than later, Cullen was battling his way through a  _group_  of Inquisition soldiers. They were sensibly attired for the cold weather in thick hide jackets and sturdy boots and armed with steel swords, whereas Cullen was outfitted only in that damnable loincloth and fur-wrapped boots and wielding his enchanted sword. Six of the soldiers were currently standing upright, while an equal number were either hauling themselves to their feet or limping off the field in what appeared to be disturbingly good spirits. A large crowd of their compatriots had gathered around the field and were cheering them on.

Most of the time, Cullen's exuberant enthusiasm for warfare and challenges of strength edged precariously close to the embarrassingly stereotypical Tevinter expectation of barbarian behavior. Dorian's exasperation with it got worse the further north they'd come and the more civilized settlements they encountered. However, there were  _some_ instances when he actually enjoyed it. And watching Cullen absolutely decimate trained soldiers without breaking too great a sweat was one of those times.

One of them, a young man with close-cropped black hair, darted forward in what looked to be an attempt to sweep Cullen's legs out from underneath him while he was distracted with parrying the strikes of two comrades. But at the last second, as the soldier swung the flat of his blade, Cullen pivoted around, kicked him so hard that he went flying backward, and spun back just in time to disarm the others. A loud whoop of excitement went through the assembled onlookers and even Dorian had to bite the inside of his lips to keep the smile off his face.

"You might want to leave a few of them to fight the demons," he called out, not bothering to keep the amused appreciation from his voice. "Otherwise it's going to be an awfully short battle."

Cullen, predictably, started laughing. It was that deep, joyful laughter that could get him mistaken as an empty-headed fool by those who had not yet come to know him. "Aye, so it will be," he shouted back, deftly tripping one of his remaining opponents and plucking the poor bastard's sword from his hand. For the briefest of instants, Cullen's eyes found Dorian's, alight with fierce amusement. "Demons are no match for me."

Casually, Dorian lifted his fist to his mouth and turned the chuckle welling up within his chest into a cough.  _No, they certainly aren't_. And oh, but he was grateful for that. The way Cullen threw himself into fights, it was far too easy to imagine one of them not ending in his favor.  _Maker willing, nothing will be_.

The familiar sense of being the center of attention drew Dorian out of his thoughts before they took a decidedly bleak turn and he glanced toward the crowd. Many of them were now looking at him, the quick there-and-gone peeks of people who wanted to stare outright but didn't want to get caught doing it. Pointedly, he met the eyes of the nearest man, somewhat older than most of those gathered around. He had dark hair, blue eyes, and an interesting tattoo that practically dominated his face for all that it was only a few dark lines of ink.

To his credit, the man didn't jerk his gaze away. "You're the mage from Tevinter," he said evenly, his accent marking him as originally hailing from Starkharven and his tone too mild to be any kind of accusation or insult.

Dorian nodded. "The one who didn't try to destroy the world with experimental magics, yes."

Perhaps the soldier didn't care about all that. Or maybe he wasn't quite as prejudiced against mages from Tevinter as everybody else in Haven evidently was. Whatever the cae, he didn't blink at that light reminder of who the enemy actually was or appear to be unduly discomforted by talking to him.

"That true what they're saying?"

It was too broad a question. Dorian's eyebrows twitched upward as he considered how creative and varied the rumors surrounding him might be. "Depends what they're saying," he replied with a deliberately careless shrug. "If you're referencing those rumors about blood rites and baby-eating, no."

_Might as well get the worst of it out of the way at the start._  They hadn't been at Haven long enough for Dorian to get a true measure of the nonsense being whispered about behind his back, but he had an active imagination. He could figure it out on his own. And likely come up with far more clever and cutting insults.

Yet instead of being taken aback by the cavalier manner in which Dorian discussed blood magic and baby-eating, the soldier only jerked his thumb toward Cullen. "You really married to that barbarian?"

Dorian arched an eyebrow, opting to buy time to sort through his surprise at  _not_  having a heap of fanciful false atrocities dumped upon him. There were ways he could deflect it or turn the question into a joke at his own expense— _That's the worst they can say about me, is it? And here I was, thinking southerners possessed a veritable trove of myths about my countrymen—_ but because he couldn't help himself, he chose a third, possibly less diplomatic option. Teasingly, with a hint of a suggestive smirk, he inquired, "Is that simple curiosity asking or have you a bit more of a  _personal_  interest in our mud-covered savage?"

The tiny pause was nearly imperceptible, though whether it stemmed from embarrassment at having his intentions so easily found out or offense over the implication that his tastes ran in a masculine direction was indeterminable. And more's the pity for that. If he was going to go through the bother of offending and embarrassing people, Dorian wanted to know that he'd done it so that he could take credit for it properly. Otherwise, what was the bloody point?

"I've not met one of his people before," the soldier said, which didn't answer Dorian's question one way or another. "A childhood friend of mine was fascinated with them, but if they traveled across the Waking Sea, I never knew of it."

Everything in him wanted to needle the man about his interest. With great effort, he managed to restrain himself. "If you're wondering if they're all like this—" He flicked his hand at Cullen, in the midst of wrestling one of his last opponents to the ground. "—the answer is yes. Though not quite as  _exuberant_  about the whole business as Cullen is."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the last soldier concede defeat after his sword went winging far out of his reach.  _If we don't get chased away for my being from Tevinter, it's going to be because Cullen has incapacitated the army._ The worst part of it was that Dorian wasn't sure if that was just one of his many sarcastic thoughts or an actual possibility.  _Or made them all look so incompetent that the Inquisition turns the lot of them away along with us_.

His new friend, if the man could be burdened with such a familiar term, looked to be about to speak, but he was interrupted by Cullen shouting across the field. "Dorian! Dance with me!"

_Of all the Maker damned things he could say in front of these people_... Sighing, Dorian turned away from the soldier to pin Cullen with an unimpressed stare. "This isn't one of your ridiculous festivals!" he called back. "None of these people care to see us fight."

"I don't know about all that," the soldier, downgrading himself from possible friendly acquaintance to irritating nuisance, interjected with a sly grin. "Might be informative."

_Oh for Maker's sake._  Dorian shot him a quelling glance. "I'm not—"

"We fight your countrymen, do we not?" Cullen returned encouragingly as he gestured to the crowd with his sword. "Show them what to expect."

Now  _that_  was just insulting. Dorian drew himself up, sniffing with affronted pride. "Venatori cultists haven't a quarter of the training of an altus battlemage. I daresay they'll learn more testing their skills against those practice dummies than by watching me."

Undeterred and unrepentant for his grievous insult, Cullen merely smiled at him. One of those large, eager, affectionately  _proud_  smiles. It was manipulation of the highest order and Dorian wanted to lob a fireball at his disgustingly handsome face. "Then let them envy the battle they'll not find in our enemies."

"Oh, go on," Dorian's decidedly  _not_ -friend said, giving him a push toward the field. "Let's see what a fancy magister can do."

" _Altus_ ," Dorian repeated immediately. "We aren't all bloody magisters."

Against his better judgment, however, he was moving forward, leaving the crowd, which had grown bigger since his arrival, behind him. He was well aware that this was either going to make the southerners more suspicious and wary of him or... Well, he wasn't sure what the other option was, but he assumed that it would be similarly unfavorable. Cullen didn't appear to share his reservations. He was too busy loosening up his wrist by twirling his sword around in tight circles and looking like he was about to have the time of his life.

_Barbarians_ , Dorian thought for the hundredth time that day.  _I don't know why I put up with this._

With neither incantation nor gesture of warning, he conjured a fireball and sent it flying straight at Cullen. As unexpected as it was, Cullen brought his sword out of the circle's arc and across his chest to catch it with a fluid, almost lazy motion. The sword spat a bright flare of green light when it came into contact with the fire, blocking its heat as Cullen redirected it to the ground with a twist of his wrist.

"Enchanted sword, ladies and gentlemen," Dorian called over his shoulder to his audience. "Bear that in mind when you're facing the Venatori."

He would have liked to have maintained the air of martial arts tutor for the duration of the spar, but as soon as he got close enough, Cullen lunged at him like he meant to behead him and it took all of his concentration to leap out of the way and bring up a wall of fire to slow him down. It would've been easier with his staff. He could've used that like an actual weapon; to block Cullen's sword, to take a few of his own swipes at him, to knock him off-balance. Without it, he had to stay out of Cullen's reach, which quickly became a juggling act of nimble footwork and powerful, damaging spells.

Before too long, he forgot that they had an audience or that the mock battle was taking place on a field in the middle of the snow-covered, miserably cold mountains. All he could see was Cullen, now actually sweating from the heat of the flames that so narrowly missed scorching him and the increased activity, and the sword that spent more time blazing with its eerie light than dormant and normal. Lightning crackled around Dorian's fingers, occasionally infusing the fire he sent Cullen's way. His spells came fast and hard, without any of the flash or showmanship he often utilized when performing magic. The cold was long forgotten.

A bolt of lightning shot from his finger at the same time another crashed down from the sky. Cullen dodged in a quick, complicated series of steps that took him out of the way of the first bolt and immediately jerked him away from the second, putting him exactly where Dorian wanted him. Fire roared up from the ground, encompassing him in a circle that narrowly avoided singeing his feet.

"Yield?" Dorian asked, aiming for coolly composed and sounding breathless from the exercise anyway.

Laughing—the bastard was actually  _laughing_ , like he wasn't doing anything more strenuous than lounging on a comfortable chair on a seaside patio, watching the waves lap the shore—Cullen cut down the flames and sauntered out. "Never," he replied, with that untamable grin Dorian adored and which also occasionally provoked the almost overwhelming desire to strangle him.

"You know," he murmured as he circled warily around Cullen, pitching his voice to keep his comments between them. "I'd rather hoped we might spend time together today. Though this was not, unfortunately, the type of exertion I had in mind."

Cullen's eyebrows rose as he mirrored Dorian's steps, keeping him in sight without pressing the offensive. "The day is not yet done."

_No, of course it isn't. You've probably never been truly exhausted in your life._ Despite himself, Dorian snorted with amusement. "At this rate, I'm going to be too exhausted to do anything but sleep."

"You think me daunted by such a challenge?" There was heat in Cullen's eyes and an edge to his smile that stirred up a number of distracting memories Dorian didn't want to be burdened with in the middle of a fight. "There is more than one ending to this dance, Dorian."

Ignoring the rush of arousal that followed the idiotic statement, Dorian gave him his best dryly unimpressed stare. "I'd prefer we not rut in the mud like animals while the soldiers watch."

Laughing again, Cullen sheathed his sword as unceremoniously as if he'd only been cleaning the blade, not using it to protect himself from magic that might yet be thrown his way. "Come then." He held out his hand. "Let us adjourn to our tent."

Of all the seductive things that had been said to him over the years,  _let us adjourn to our tent_  was near the bottom of the list. It hardly helped that it was delivered by a man who looked as gorgeous as Cullen. There was nothing enticing about a  _tent_  and Dorian had half a mind to tell him that in full, scathing detail. Unfortunately for his pride, his libido had taken an interest and was now telling his pride to sod off elsewhere for the foreseeable future.

"You're going to need to work on your seduction techniques, Wolf-Bane," Dorian told him archly, though he took the proffered hand without further prompting. "You’re not excused from the task of wooing me properly simply because I married you."

Something predatory kindled to life in Cullen's eyes as he took a stalking step closer. Dorian's mouth went dry as he watched him, caught in a wave of anticipation and lust.

"That's it, then?" a distinctly accented voice called out, drawing their attention away from each other. "You're both giving up?"

A litany of curses, a mishmash of Tevene and the Trade tongue, raced through his mind, though beneath the vexation was a faint glimmer of relief. There was no telling what sort of embarrassing situation he might have found himself in if they hadn't been interrupted. For all his talk of decorum and dignity, Cullen had a disturbing way of making him forget about it in the heat of the moment. That they hadn’t been caught in the midst of an indiscretion at Red-Lion Hold was something of a minor miracle.

Once again aware that they had an audience, Dorian was almost loath to turn and face them after the performance he and Cullen had just given them.  _Almost_. Not one to appear timid in front of provincial, unwashed Fereldans, he resolutely glanced their way, spine straight, shoulders back, and head canted at just the right angle to look down his perfect nose at the judgmental lot of them.

Except, instead of fear or horror at the unrestrained use of his magic or the scandalized disgust he would have witnessed in Tevinter for so obviously and openly flirting with another man, he saw something else entirely. Surprise. Awe. Envy. Excitement. Some of the soldiers were smiling, not only at Cullen, which was to be expected, but at  _him_  as well. Others were talking animatedly to one another, the way spectators at the arena often did after a particularly exciting Proving.

And the soldier from Starkhaven was looking more alive and less dour than he had appeared prior to the impromptu match.

_Almost like he's got a wager going_ , Dorian thought suspiciously, though the thought lacked any accompanying annoyance. He scanned the crowd, looking for the hints of apprehension or mistrust in their faces. Frowns. Sideways glances. Rigidity of posture. Something. Anything at all. Yet try though he did, he couldn't find a damn sign of condemnation.

"Some victories are not so straightforward, Rylen!" Cullen jovially called out to the soldier. Because  _of course_ he knew the bloody man's name. His name, the names of everyone in Haven, their extended families across the length and breadth of Thedas, and likely those of every flea-bitten hound they'd all ever loved. "Not every battle ends in defeat for one of the combatants!"

Dorian didn't bother trying to disguise his exaggerated eye-rolling as he followed Cullen to the edge of the field to join the crowd. It wasn't unusual for him to parade out wisdom more apt for a philosopher than a muscle-bound leader of a barbarian clan, but it was the first time that Dorian heard him speak like that to someone who wasn't Avvar. Or  _him_ , though by that point, as much as it pained him to even think the words in the privacy of his own mind, Dorian knew that he was practically an honorary Avvar anyway. Even if he didn't dress as atrociously as the rest of them did.

Upon arriving at  _Rylen’s_  side, Cullen reached out and the two of them clasped hands like they'd been doing it all their lives.  _Maker help me, has he befriended everyone in the whole village?_  It was either that or the man truly had been harboring designs of a more than friendly nature on Dorian's husband. He wasn't quite certain how he felt about that.

"So it's a mutual victory, eh?" Rylen prodded, glancing shrewdly between Cullen and Dorian. "That's the official take?"

Cullen opened his mouth to respond and sensing that he was about to completely miss the point of the question, Dorian cut in. "If you bet neither of us would win, you may as well go collect your winnings before the poor fool who bet against you sneaks off with your coin."

Chuckling like he'd just heard a hilarious joke, Rylen clapped Dorian on the back. The touch was so unexpected, not the least of which because of how  _friendly_  it was, that Dorian blinked in surprise. "Think I'm starting to see why he married you."

Was that some sort of backhanded disparagement? Dorian wasn't certain and before he could figure it out or ask the man, Rylen turned away, calling for a fellow soldier who, presumably, owed him money.

"Did he just insult me?" Dorian turned to Cullen in perplexity.

If he had, Cullen wasn't the least bit offended by such a vicious attack on his husband's fragile dignity. Slinging an arm around Dorian's shoulders, he leaned in and murmured into his ear, "Unless you mean to be  _seduced_  here on the training ground, I suggest you start walking."

_Oh. Well then._  Absently licking his lips, Dorian did as bid without further comment. His hand, quite of its own volition, skimmed over Cullen's back and came to rest just above the edge of the belt that kept the loincloth in place. Had they not been in public, no doubt it would have oh so innocently worked its way under the strip of fur. Because they were, he had to settle for a more acceptable locale. Cullen's skin was very warm from all the activity and slightly tacky with cooling sweat. Dorian found himself quite seriously considering how best to maneuver them so that he could run his tongue down Cullen's spine.

It wasn't long before the tent, for once a welcome relief instead of an aggravating nuisance, came into view. Along with it, unfortunately, came the sight of a body hurrying in their direction.

"Dorian!" It was Mahanon, evidently, and if his jogging down the path didn't speak loudly enough to urgency, the sound of his voice certainly did. "Cullen!"

"You've got to be kidding me," Dorian muttered under his breath as his fingers curled and his nails bit into Cullen's back.

Of all the Maker-damned luck. After what felt like a month, he was  _finally_  going to fuck his husband—or get fucked by his husband, he wasn't feeling overly discerning about the particulars—and now there was a blasted elf standing between him and his highly anticipated release of sexual tension. Cullen merely hummed a note of serene amusement, as if he wasn't as eager for it as Dorian. He was, the bastard. Dorian knew that he was.

"Well met, Herald," Cullen called out, slowly drawing them to a halt less than a dozen feet from the tent. Dorian considered casually shuffling toward it in the hope that both of them would take the hint, but from his expression, Mahanon wasn't going to bugger off elsewhere and Cullen could be as immovable as a mountain at the worst times. "Is something amiss?"

"What?" Blinking, Mahanon shook his head. "Oh, no. Good news, for once, if you can believe it."

_And you just had to deliver it in person right now_ , Dorian thought sourly, though if it truly was good news, that meant that he would deliver it and then carry on with telling the rest of the village. He wouldn't have any reason to insist on lingering.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense!" Dorian kept the bulk of his impatience out of his voice, managing to sound as if he was excited for the news and not like he was half-hard and within throwing distance of relief. "What is it?"

Thankfully, Mahanon got to the point. "We've mages enough to close the Breach."

That actually  _was_  good news. Relief of a different nature coursed through him in a torrent so strong that he involuntarily expelled a hard breath. From the almost convulsive tightening of Cullen's fingers around his shoulder, Dorian could tell that he was similarly affected. It was over. The horrible hole in the sky would be healed, demons would stop tearing their way through the Veil wherever and whenever they felt like it, and he and Cullen return to Red-Lion Hold. Oh, he remembered what the augur had told Cullen, but once the Breach was closed, there was nothing keeping them from going back.

The hold wasn't Dorian's home, but it was Cullen's and for all that he missed the balmy temperatures and architectural wonders of Tevinter, he wasn't in a hurry to go back. Home was an uncouth, mud-covered savage with gleaming golden eyes and a fearlessness unmatched by anyone he'd ever met. It was a mangy lion possessed by a creature of the Fade. It was an eagle of dubious origin. It was a dying best friend who, through strange and forbidden magic, might have just beaten the odds that the blight had stacked against him.

Home, Dorian had learned, was wherever he damn well wanted it to be.

_And now we've even more to celebrate_ , he thought, glancing sideways at Cullen. Whether he felt himself the subject of Dorian's attention or his thoughts were traveling along a similar path, he had done the same. Their eyes met and Dorian would have sworn a sense of accord passed between them.

"Well," he exclaimed, focusing his gaze back on Mahanon. "That's wonderful news! When is it to be done?"

"That's what I've come to speak with you about. Leliana and Cassandra are making the necessary preparations as we speak. We leave for the Valley of Sacred Ashes in an hour." All too clearly, Dorian could see where this was headed. Frustration and disappointment vied for dominance as Mahanon met his eyes and said hopefully, "I'd like for you to come with me." His gaze shifted briefly to Cullen. "Both of you. We're bound to face more demons at the site of the Breach and your aid would be invaluable."

_Of course it would be. You've one of the most powerful mages in Tevinter at your disposal and a barbarian king whose skill with a sword far outstrips that of the majority of your soldiers._ And he was proud of that recognition, make no mistake. Mahanon simply had abysmal timing. If he were more selfish, a feat which his family might claim was an impossibility, he might have been tempted to say no. As it was, there was really no contest.

"Certainly!" False though the brightness of his agreement was, Dorian made certain that it sounded genuine. "We'll get ready immediately."

Mahanon smiled, clearly pleased to hear it. Which was strange in its own right, being smiled at like that by an elf who had little cause to tolerate him and practically every reason to hate him on principle. The possibility of an unanticipated friendship didn't make up for being denied time with Cullen, but it did dull the edge of his disappointment somewhat. "Meet me in the chantry in a quarter hour?"

"We shall be there without delay," Cullen assured him. "Our preparations shall not take long."

They parted ways then, Mahanon heading off to speak with whomever else he needed to inform of the plan and the two of them to their tent with significantly less enthusiasm than they'd started the journey.  _The sacrifices I make for this bloody world_ , Dorian thought melodramatically.  _I deserve a statue. Perhaps a pair of statues. Made of gold._

At the tent, as Cullen pulled back the flap and gestured for him to enter, Dorian caught his wrist. "After we close the Breach," he told him firmly, pinning him with a fierce stare, "you're mine. No interruptions. No excuses. Do you understand?  _Mine._ "

Cullen gave him that sly, secretive smirk that always made him want to kiss it right off of his mouth. "Aye, husband mine. I am yours."

"All night," Dorian clarified. Then, not about to lose either his advantage or his momentum, he added, "And tomorrow."

Chuckling low in his throat, Cullen leaned in and brushed his lips over Dorian's. "Aye," he said again. "As you are mine."

"Damn right." And if neither of them could walk the following day, even better. In fact, he decided, he was going to strive for that level of physical exhaustion. "Now let's go close that Maker-forsaken hole."

* * *

They  _did_  close the Breach. Not without a great deal of fighting and demon-slaying, the place was absolutely crawling with demons, but finally, between Mahanon's magical hand and the power of the mages, the tear in the sky stitched itself closed and the rain of demons ceased. Exultant with their victory, they all trooped back to Haven, adrenaline and bone-deep relief at not having to witness the end of the world keeping the worst of their exhaustion at bay. And a good thing for it, too, because those left behind at Haven were in the midst of a rousing celebration by the time they returned and the villagers immediately swept everyone up in it the moment they set foot through the gate.

Never one to refuse free alcohol when it was being enthusiastically pressed into his hand, Dorian allowed himself to partake a bit in the revelry despite his conflicting desires to sleep for a week and drag Cullen off for about three hours of debauchery. Cullen, of course, took to the celebration like he hadn't just tried to kill every demon that had descended on them in the Valley, laughing and joking with practically every soldier, mage, and villager he encountered.

Excusing himself from a rather dramatic reenactment of a particularly harrowing—for everyone involved but Cullen, who'd carried on like it was the annual Festival of That Patch of Moss On That Log Over There or whatever nonsense the Avvar habitually celebrated—pitched battle for a group of enthralled villagers, Dorian ducked into the tavern to get a refill on his disappointing southern wine. Ordinarily, it would have taken about two minutes, but the place was so full that he spent nearly twenty minutes fighting through the crowd to and from the bar. When he emerged with some new flavor the beleaguered barkeep had dug up and a tankard full of ale to replace the empty one Cullen had been waving around, he found him chatting with Rylen and some squirrelly fellow Rylen introduced as Jim.

After a few minutes spent watching the lot of them interact, Dorian was no closer to deciding whether Rylen's interest in Cullen was born from innocent curiosity about his culture and the admiration one warrior might feel toward another with great skill or whether it was all down to attraction. There was no question about whether the attraction existed in the first place. Of course Rylen was attracted to him. Dorian accepted that everyone who looked at him, regardless of preference, harbored at least  _some_  attraction toward Cullen with the same unwavering belief that the sky would always remain above his head. He was  _that_ handsome, even in the ridiculous fur and mud.

Jim, on the other hand, was so obviously smitten that Dorian felt the uncomfortable twinges of secondhand embarrassment he typically only felt whenever a magister publicly engaged in some preposterous stunt meant to win acclaim and approval and merely succeeded in making a colossal arse of himself. More than once, Dorian caught Jim staring at Cullen like he was the Maker come down to slum it with the pathetic mortals. He hung onto every word Cullen said and looked as though he was committing every second of the conversation to memory.

Cullen gave no indication that he noticed, though Dorian was certain that he had to have done so. He liked to act oblivious when it suited his attempts to be thoroughly infuriating, but on the whole, he was probably the most observant person Dorian had ever met. Unless he was so used to that sort of behavior among the Avvar that he'd become desensitized to it, he had to recognize it.

The entertainment value of the whole affair ran out at approximately the same time as Dorian's glass of wine. As he saw it, there were two choices: get another refill to fortify himself for the duration of night-long socializing or spirit Cullen out of there so that they could get on with  _their_  evening.

As it so often did, self-interest won out.

"I do so hate to cut this short," he lied through his teeth with his most apologetically charming smile. "But I'm afraid Cullen and I really must be off to meet with the Herald. You understand, I'm sure. Free time is ever the luxury of kings and queens."

"Of course," Rylen responded, waving them both toward the chantry with a grin. "Better you than me. Cullen, tomorrow at noon." He slapped a companionable hand against Cullen's shoulder. "Bring that sword of yours."

"Aye," Cullen agreed with laughter so hearty Dorian felt tired just listening to him.  _Honestly, where does he get the energy?_  "I'll go as easy on you as I can."

As they took their leave of the other two, who remained loitering near the tavern, Dorian shot Cullen a somewhat incredulous stare. "We spent the whole afternoon hiking through the mountains and fighting demons and you're already making sparring plans for tomorrow?"

"I'll not allow myself to grow soft simply because the sky is repaired."

Dorian didn't mean to laugh. It just burst out of him unbidden. When Cullen lifted an eyebrow at the outburst, Dorian shook his head. "That won't happen, Cullen." Unable to let the assurance end there, he added slyly, "Is it not my duty as your husband to keep you hard?"

It seemed that that served as an adequate explanation for his laughter. Cullen's inquisitive expression was growing a bit smirky about the edges. "Then why are we going to meet with the Herald?"

"We aren't," Dorian told him serenely, before grabbing him by the arm and pulling him off the path.

The chantry sat before them a short distance away. Between them and it stood a small collection of houses, all of them occupied by villagers and their friends celebrating their continued existence. Beyond those homes, however, were the dark shadows of large evergreen trees.  _Many_  trees. Enough trees that the light from the plethora of candles and torches illuminating home interiors and the village paths could not dissipate  _all_  of the night's darkness.

Sex outdoors might have been an Avvar aphrodisiac, but Dorian would have much preferred a bed with a thick mattress and a wealth of soft blankets. Barring that, any clean, relatively comfortable surface that was located  _within_ the privacy of four walls and a roof would have sufficed. Even the Maker-forsaken tent would have been better than a rock covered with snow or the cold bark of a tree. But the tent was too far away at the moment. Moreover, it was within easy access of anyone who wanted to pop in for a chat and quite frankly, at this point Dorian would have been too tempted to light the intruder on fire for disturbing them. It was a quick fumble out in disgusting nature or nothing until  _maybe_ tomorrow.

Dorian was done waiting. Evidently Cullen was too, because he caught on to the plan almost as soon as they stepped onto the grass. Then it wasn't Dorian trying to tug him away from the festivities but Cullen hustling him toward the trees so firmly that he might as well have tried tossing him over his shoulder and carrying him there. Which, in theory might have been a little titillating, but in practice in a location where they could have been easily observed would have earned him a scorching of his own.

"Eager after all, are we?" Dorian murmured playfully, a note of light laughter in his voice.

In lieu of answering a question like a civilized person, Cullen waited precisely two seconds after they moved out of the light to spin Dorian around, hike him up straight off the ground, and push him back into something hard and unyielding. A tree or boulder or perhaps a smooth section of the huge rocks that pressed on the chantry's one side, it was difficult to tell. And under normal circumstances, Dorian's instinctive dislike of getting dirty would have had him recoiling away from it, no doubt with some sharp comment about at least checking for insects and lice-ridden pests in the vicinity first.

Under these very specific circumstances, Cullen captured his mouth in a searing, demanding kiss before Dorian could even start to get it open to voice his displeasure.

_Fucking finally_ , he thought in relief, parting his lips for Cullen's tongue to lick into his mouth. He met it with his own, tried to suck on it and direct the kiss himself, then gave up and let Cullen have the lead. It promised to be more fun like that, anyway, as voracious as he was being about it.

Cullen's hands left his hips, but before Dorian could fully register the loss of his touch or consider objecting to it, they were back, fussing with the folds of his cloak to find the opening. He found it quickly enough, though once inside, there were a number of buckles and ties barring his fingers from Dorian's skin. A low growl of impatience passed between them through the kisses that had yet to cease; against Cullen's mouth, Dorian smiled.

_His_  hands slid unimpeded down Cullen's bare back, passing over muscle that felt as hard as whatever it was against his back. Despite the cold air, his skin was warm and Dorian, on a whim, heated his palms just shy of burning for a little extra, unexpected sensation. Cullen hissed, then bit down savagely on Dorian's lower lip. In retaliation, he shoved his hands under the damnable loin cloth and tightly grabbed Cullen's ass.

Immediately, Cullen bucked against him and through the layers of his clothes, Dorian could feel his erection pressing against his thigh. Teasingly, he slid one hand sideways across Cullen's hip, dipped the tip of his forefinger beneath the lointcloth’s front flap, and ran it through the coarser hair covering his groin.

Tipping his head to the side, Dorian broke away from Cullen's mouth to smirk at him. "Has it been so long that you've forgotten how to best buckles,  _amatus_?"

The sharp nip Cullen gave his throat in response suggested that he might not be too far from the mark with that one. “I thought you might wish to preserve your garments’ ability to close,” he remarked against his skin, his voice a low, rumbling purr. “If I thought wrong, I’ll rectify it now.”

Dorian absolutely didn't shiver at that threat or the resultant images it brought vividly to life in his mind, though it was admittedly only by virtue of being wedged so tightly between Cullen and the... tree, he was pretty sure it was a tree after prolonged contact. It was tempting to goad him into it. Cullen acting unrestrained on his baser urges was always an enjoyable sight to witness, and it was even more enjoyable to be the focal point of some of them. But as erotic as being torn free from his clothes because Cullen couldn't be bothered untying his trousers might have been, he had to take into account the fact that they were outside, in the snow, and his replacement wardrobe was incredibly lacking.

And he had to do that accounting with the majority of his higher functioning abandoned in favor of trying to wriggle his hips in such a fashion that he might steal a bit of friction from Cullen's clumsy hands.

His first blindingly brilliant response was a groan, which he blamed fully on Cullen taking the opportunity that sucking on his throat provided to bite him again. His second was marginally better. "I, ah..."  _Damn it, Pavus, pull yourself together before you find yourself walking through the village debauched and half-naked._ "I'd rather keep them intact, if it's all the same to you." Then, because he couldn't help wanting to enact some of those brief flashes of fantasy, he added softly, "This time."

Cullen murmured an incomprehensible note of sound seconds before Dorian felt the wet warmth of his tongue dipping into the hollow of his throat. At the same instant, what felt like a blast of cold air blew over his cock. He jerked involuntarily, but before he could sort out whether the temperature change dampened or inflamed his arousal, Cullen's hand circled firm and hot around his flesh.

"Fuck, yes," he breathed, all pretense of teasing gone as he took hold of Cullen's cock in his own hand.

Magic still simmered under his skin, pulsing heat into Cullen's shaft. It wasn't a tactic he utilized often during sex, even before leaving Tevinter, but the few times he employed a touch or two of magic with Cullen, he'd always responded positively. This time was no exception. Dorian got a quiet, choked off moan for his efforts that metamorphosed into a feral growl of impatience.

"Choose your actions carefully," Cullen told him softly in a voice that made him wonder if it might actually be possible to get harder than he already was. "Lest I stray from our agreed upon restraint."

He nearly tested that warning. Had they been inside and somewhere considerably more private, he wouldn't have thought twice about doing it. Now, it was with a great deal of reluctance that he released the magic and let his hands return to their normal state. Warm, but not significantly so.

Sliding his palm down Cullen's shaft, Dorian leaned in and nudged his head up so that he could get another kiss. "I suppose it isn't—"

" _Shh_ ," Cullen abruptly, going rigidly still.

It took the sudden disappearance of friction along his own cock a moment to reach his brain and once it had, Dorian pulled back as far as the tree—definitely a tree—would allow. It was too dark where they were standing to get a clear look at Cullen's eyes, but the tension was coiled so tightly in his body that Dorian could feel the faintest tremor in the taut muscles of his ass, where his other hand still rested.

A few heartbeats of silence later, the whisper of something reached Dorian's ears. It was too far away to make it out and ridiculously, he squinted into the shadows over Cullen's shoulder as if that would magnify the sounds for which he was listening.

"Shouting," Cullen murmured, just as alarms started ringing out in Haven.

Dorian knew it was coming. As soon as Cullen had spoken, some part of him knew that their tryst in the dark was going to end in dissatisfaction, but the disappointment he felt as Cullen withdrew his hand was still real and impossible to ignore.  _Of all the Maker-damned times for an attack, they had to pick_ now _? It couldn't have waited an hour?_ Unworthy thoughts, perhaps, but they shot resentfully through his mind just the same.

They'd saved the blighted world from whatever terrible magic had torn open the sky. It wasn't selfish to want to have a  _little_  time to themselves.

"We must go," Cullen told him unnecessarily, already moving back toward the heart of the village.

Tucking himself back into his trousers, Dorian followed, righting his clothes as he walked. This far south, it could have been anything. Demons that had tracked them out of the Valley. Darkspawn. A roving group of ruffians and bandits.  _This had better be good_ , he thought irritably.  _If we just got interrupted because some idiotic Orlesian noble lost a wyvern and it's come here looking for an easy meal..._

As it happened,  _good_  turned out to be relative.

The interruption wasn't a misplaced monstrosity looking for sustenance, but a massive army crawling down the side of the opposite mountain like thousands of fiery ants. Southern templars, Dorian found out shortly afterward, as he and Cullen met Mahanon, Hawke, and half a dozen other Inquisition officials at the gate. And Felix, whose presence and positioning not far from Hawke failed to escape Dorian's notice.

Not just templars either, but someone Hawke evidently knew—and judging from the snarl that entered his voice as he named him, he didn't much care for the man—and the Elder One that Alexius had been claiming to serve. Who, according to some odd young man in clothes that looked patched together from the castoffs of a dozen hobos, was angry that Mahanon, and thereby the rest of them, had stolen his mages.

_And I'm rather angry at you, you bloody bastard_ , Dorian thought furiously, trying and failing to pierce the slowly dwindling distance between himself and the Elder One. He wanted a good look at the son of a bitch who'd led Alexius astray.

Hawke immediately set about dispatching both his soldiers and the mages who'd been gathering behind them, sending runners to collect those who were too deep in their revelry to heed the alarms. Curiously, after he finished barking orders, he stepped in close to Felix and said something to him too quiet for Dorian to hear.

_Fight templars now, ask Felix what's going on there later_ , he told himself firmly, trying to pry his attention off of his friend and focus on the army drawing ever nearer. He was nearly successful, too, right up until he caught a ripple of movement from the corner of his eye and looked back in time to see Selkor slink out of the darkness and join Felix. Dorian was certain that the spirit had not yet returned to the lion, which opened up a number of fascinating possibilities for what he was seeing.

Had the lion befriended Felix of its own volition? Was it coming at the behest of the spirit that had been cohabiting with it for Maker knew how many years? Did the spirit still have some control over it? Were red lions even smarter than people realized?

_That's another thing to inquire about after there aren't people trying to kill you. Do_ try _to pay attention to the madman styling himself a god, hm?_

"Here," Cullen said at his side, pressing something into his hand.

Even as he turned to regard him, Dorian recognized the smooth polished wood of his staff as his fingers automatically closed around it. "That was quick."

He hadn't even noticed Cullen leaving his side, much less his absence. Yet he must have left it for a short time, at least, because he'd brought Dorian his staff and his sword was now belted at his hip. He'd even renewed the streaks of mud and paint that covered the majority of his naked skin.

"The battle waits for no one," Cullen intoned.

"Well," Dorian replied, adding a flourish aimed at the advancing army. "What are we waiting for?"

Unlike Cullen, Dorian didn't enjoy participating in battles for their own sake, but he could acknowledge a tiny kernel of mean-spirited satisfaction at killing mage-hating southern templars stupid enough to follow a madman styling himself a god. What gave him pause was when the tide of armored behemoths suddenly turned into  _actual_  armored behemoths: tall, lumbering misshapen man-shaped things covered in mismatched, ill-fitting armor. When he called over to Cullen, so spattered with his opponents' blood that in the dark it was difficult to tell what was mud and what wasn't, to ask him what the things were, Cullen didn't have an answer.

Still, twisted monstrosities notwithstanding, the defenders were holding their own right up to the point that a bloody dragon flew in out of nowhere and started laying waste to the village. Hawke called a retreat at that point, urging everyone into the chantry. To Dorian's utter lack of surprise, Cullen balked at abandoning the field, as if he alone could take on an army, whatever the Elder One was, and a dragon. They argued about it as they cut through a group of templars and collected one of the villagers who'd been trying to hide in a dilapidated shed, but after Dorian snapped that he supposed they'd both stand there and die like fools, Cullen gave in and they ducked inside the wall just as the gate was closing.

Inside, many of the structures were on fire. Some were well on their way to collapse while others were only just beginning to burn. A steady stream of panicked villagers fled toward the chantry, shouting and calling to one another. Others were embroiled in losing battles with templars who had managed to sneak in during the confusion. Without a word, Cullen veered off to go deal with them and Dorian followed, readying yet another volley of fire and lightning. By then, there were bodies aplenty and when they happened upon a number of the huge monstrosities harrying a family, Dorian rose a dozen undead to deal with them.

As they neared the chantry, they passed Mahanon and a tiny group of misfits—Solas, who seemed to stick closer to Mahanon than his shadow, Varric, and that burly bearded fellow they'd acquired recently who claimed to be a Grey Warden and Dorian privately thought was a bear in disguise—heading the opposite way.

"Dubious safety's that way!" Dorian called out helpfully, pointing toward the chantry's doors.

"Haven's evacuating," Mahanon called back, sounding disturbing calm about the whole thing. "We're going to create a diversion."

_Four men against an army and a dragon..._  Dorian shook his head, knowing without needing to be told the details of the plan what the odds of survival for that would be. "Ah, good! A suicide mission, then?"

Just like he knew that none of them were going to make whatever rendezvous Hawke had no doubt offered as useless false hope, Dorian also knew that four men weren't going to be able to stand against an army and a dragon.  _Six_  men, a legion of the undead, and however many men Cullen tended to be worth in battle were. Because there was no way Cullen was going to let them go alone and Dorian would be damned if he ran like a coward.

"Excellent!" Jogging over to Mahanon, who was looking at him in shock, Dorian slapped him on the back. Cullen was already ahead of them, leading the way back to battle with his ridiculous sword spitting green light. "I do so enjoy a suicidal last stand."

"You don't need to do this," Mahanon murmured to him, like a disgustingly good person who cared about someone he knew dying for no good reason and was trying his damnedest to discourage participation without lowering the morale of the idiots going off to die with him.

Instead of saying something heartfelt and sentimental, Dorian settled for a charming smile. "And let you have all the fun? Banish the thought."

A low rumble from the bear beside him caught Dorian's attention, though it took a few seconds for his brain to translate the sound into words. "Can't you magisters control dragons? Send this one away."

_What was his name again? Blackbeard? Blackhair? Furry Beast?_  Dorian couldn't remember. "I'm not sure what stories you've heard about magisters, Black Bear, but I'm afraid that one isn't true. And for the sixth time today, I'm not a magister. Perhaps it would behoove you to clear that matted fur out of your ears so that you might hear better in the future."

Behind him, the dwarf was chuckling. "Guess he told you, huh, Black Bear?"

"Shut it, dwarf."

Against all expectations, they  _didn't_  die. They fought off what seemed like an unending flood of templars and twisted things, but no one got killed in the process. No one took an injury more severe than a mild cut and when that did occur, Solas was quick to heal the wound. Good thing, too, considering how unreliable Dorian's own healing abilities were. They were busy enough that he didn't have time to think about Felix or the animals that had accompanied them from Red-Lion Hold. He hadn't seen Falkyr since that afternoon in the Valley and had no idea what had happened to him.

Exposure to Cullen's foolishness must have been contagious, because Mahanon eventually lost his mind and told them all to go away so that he could face the Elder One himself. Dorian moved to object, but Varric shook his head and gestured him away. "Don't worry, Sparkler, he's got a plan."

He had half a mind to point out that battlefields from here to the Colean Sea were littered with people who'd had plans. A chance glance Cullen's way caught him nodding in agreement, which after that episode earlier was infuriatingly hypocritical, but since the others were in agreement and were leaving for the sake of the mysterious plan, Dorian bit back his objections and followed suit.

The next few hours were a freezing, frantic disaster.

Looking back on it, Dorian could only remember it in disjointed flashes. White, always white. The struggle to ford through hip deep snow as it sucked at his boots and more of it blew into his eyes and blinded him. Huddling in his cloak, wishing it was thicker, wondering if he was going to freeze to death on the side of a mountain and worrying about whether any of the people he even remotely liked had made it to safety. Glancing skyward, trying to see if the dragon was following, and seeing nothing but a swirl of snow.

It felt like an age before they stumbled upon the survivors of the attack, sheltered from the storm in a small valley. Fires were burning, the desire not to freeze outweighing the need to remain unseen from the air. Felix was there, thank the Maker, warming himself by a fire with Selkor. The eagle was perched on the frame of a tent nearby, as if he was watching over them both.

All of the things Dorian wanted to say to Felix seemed frozen in his throat. He simply collapsed at his side, strengthening the fire with a thought, and leaned against him, exhausted. Cullen, a shaggy, snow-covered blob beside him, did the same. And there they waited for any word from Mahanon, who no one had seen since the exodus from the village.

Hawke, of all people, found him, and when he did, some of the tension that had been hanging like pall over the camp dissipated. Those who hadn't made it, either during the attack or in the flight from the village, were mourned by those who knew them. Dorian kept to his fire throughout the night, not wishing to get caught up in anyone's grief or leave the comfort of what meager heat he was able to cultivate. Felix got up at one point to go talk to Hawke and didn't return for nearly an hour. Cullen, never one to enjoy being inactive when he didn't have to be, went to scout the perimeter of the camp.

"Are you planning to wander off as well?" Dorian asked Selkor, idly combing his fingers through his thick fur. For warmth, of course. There was no other sensible reason to be doing it.

Uncannily similar to the way he behaved when he was possessed, Selkor looked at him, yawned, and then laid his great big head down on his paws like he had no intention of getting up ever. In his periphery, Dorian could see the tip of his tail tapping slowly against the ground.

After a moment, Dorian asked softly, resolutely ignoring the embarrassing fact that he was talking to a lion, "I don't suppose you've any idea what we're going to do now?"

Selkor flicked his ear. Perhaps coincidentally. Perhaps in some obscure feline method of communication. Whatever the case, it merely prompted Dorian to scratch at his fur.

"Me either." He laughed then, a quiet huff of breath that wasn't entirely laden with humor. "Let's just hope someone figures it out before we all die out here." 


	2. Part Two

Skyhold—the solution to all of the Inquisition's most immediate problems. A huge, ancient fortress in a horrible state of disrepair, conveniently located in the middle of the Frostback Mountains, not too terribly far from where the survivors of Haven had made initial camp. It took about three days to find it, far less than the week-long trips back and forth to Redcliffe. But they were still three days of slogging up and down mountains through snow that was often thigh-deep and battling chilling, brutal wind that made Dorian's bones ache. Three days of not being sure whether they would make it to safety somewhere or if they would die, either by running out of supplies and starving to death in the cold or being found and killed by Corypheus' army and his dragon.

But by the grace of the Maker, Mahanon and Solas returned from one of their scouting expeditions—at any other time, Dorian would have suspected them of doing a little less scouting of the  _land_  than they were claiming, but the journey was so exhausting that he doubted they had the energy to get up to anything pleasurable—with news that they'd discovered a place large enough to house what remained of the Inquisition and still have plenty of room left over.

On the approach, Skyhold was impressive. It looked to have been carved from the mountain itself and seemed well-nigh impenetrable. On closer inspection, it lost a significant portion of its luster.

Cobwebs hung from every corner of every room and practically blanketed every abandoned piece of moldering furniture. The roof had collapsed in so many places that repairing it would take a small army of dedicated workers months, and that was only after they'd shored up damaged walls and archways, rebuilt whole sections of corridors, and reconstructed all of the places where the floor simply opened up into terrifying drops.

In theory, it was better than Haven simply because it suggested craftsmanship unsullied by dogs and hinted at the wealth of whomever had owned the thing centuries ago. In reality, it looked like a deathtrap that was going to save Corypheus the trouble of killing them. But it was better than freezing to death in the middle of Ferelden.

And eventually, grudgingly, the place grew on Dorian.

* * *

Cullen was standing at the window, looking out at the view of the mountains, when Dorian walked for the first time into the room they'd been assigned for the duration of their stay at Skyhold. Their meager collection of belongings were sitting on the floor in a pile where Cullen, prior to getting distracted by the outdoors, had evidently left them. The room itself was unremarkable and on the small side, slightly larger than the thane's hut they'd shared in Red-Lion Hold but nowhere the grand scale of his luxurious rooms back in Tevinter.

The sparse furniture needed cleaned and the bedding washed by some enterprising individual that wasn't Dorian. The chests meant to hold their belongings no doubt required airing out. A thick rug or three would be necessary to cover the frigid stone floor, after it had been suitably swept and cleaned. Again, by someone who wasn't Dorian. And a roaring fire would need to be created and maintained at all times in the derelict hearth across from the bed.

That was a task that Dorian could have done rather easily, without hesitation or complaint. But because there was another, more pressing matter that needed his attention, he decided that it all could wait until later.

Focused on Cullen's back, Dorian advanced silently across the room at a purposeful clip and didn't stop until he was pressed up against the broad expanse of it. Cullen must have sensed his approach, because he didn't tense at the contact or do anything other than chuckle softly and brace his palms on the windowsill to better take the added weight. Without a word, Dorian plucked a vial from one of his belt pouches and set it down on the stone near Cullen's hand, hard enough that the glass made a rather pointed  _click_  upon contact.

"I haven't any preference on who makes use of it," he murmured, leaning in so that his lips brushed Cullen's ear with every word. "But one of us is going to  _right now_ , before the castle collapses or the dragon attacks or another blighted hole opens up in the sky."

Cullen's chuckle got louder. Dorian could feel the vibration of it where his chest was resting against his back. He wasn't taking the matter as seriously as it should have been treated. "I've not seen you so impatient, Dorian," the bastard replied, sounding for all the world as if he was  _enjoying_  their catastrophe-enforced celibacy.

It might have been endearing at any other moment. Playfulness during sex was a novelty to which he'd been introduced by Cullen and after all this time, he was still charmed by it. Which, he often thought, was quite an accurate statement on just how miserable sex was treated in Tevinter. But he didn't want to be charmed. He wanted to be fucked. Or be fucking. It really didn't matter which way it happened, as long as fucking was involved and it wasn't interrupted prior to its completion.

Maker help anyone who interrupted them. Dorian was more than willing to set anyone, up to and including Mahanon, on fire for it.

"Me, then," he retorted primly, picking up the vial before Cullen could move to grab it.

_He_  had no difficulty with his clothes. While he popped the cork out of the vial with his thumb, Dorian unlaced his trousers one-handed, each flick of his fingers quick and no nonsense. Because Cullen was still just standing there, silently laughing at him, Dorian pushed a knee between his legs and shoved them apart.

"You might be a  _little_  helpful here," Dorian told him, laying on the disapproval as thickly as he could.

The subtle tremors he could feel shaking Cullen's shoulders didn't abruptly cease, though in the span of a few heartbeats they did finally slow to nothing. "Aye, I might. Though I enjoy this side of you too much to do so."

There were a number of ways he might take that. In the interest of not losing sight of the goal for the sake of an impromptu philosophical wander through those possibilities, Dorian chose to ignore the comment and focus on the facts. Cullen was not only being an unhelpful twit, he was also making him do all the work. As near as he could figure it, there was only one suitable response to such blatant disrespect.

He poured a small portion of the oil onto the three fingers of his opposite hand. Spreading it across the skin with his thumb, he set the vial down and pushed Cullen's loincloth out of the way. Seduction and leisurely traversing flesh he had long since memorized could wait until later. Without preamble, Dorian smoothly slide one finger inside him. Cullen inhaled slightly harder than normal, but he didn't tense or try to shift away, suggesting that it wasn't a sign of discomfort. Dorian spared a few seconds to work that finger in and out of him, loosening him just enough for a second finger to join the first on the next push.

This close to him, Dorian could feel it when Cullen started breathing faster. Where it rested on the windowsill, keeping Cullen upright, his hand was curling into a fist, his fingernails digging into the stone.

"If I'm moving too quickly," Dorian started quietly, knowing that Cullen wasn't shy about voicing what he wanted and that if he wasn't enjoying it, he'd say something without needing to be prompted yet unwilling to let it go unsaid.

Despite all the teasing about Dorian's impatience, Cullen responded with a low snarl that belied his own. "Don't stop."

_Not quite so unaffected after all, are we?_  It was possible that the smug satisfaction was unbecoming of him, but Dorian allowed himself a moment to revel in it just the same. And to pause  _just for an instant_  to give Cullen the impression that he was going to be as uncooperative as he was being about the whole affair. Just as he felt the warning vibration of another snarl starting to build in Cullen's chest, he pressed in with three fingers and cut it off.

Cullen exhaled hard, likely caught by surprise, though he wasted no time in pushing back against Dorian's fingers in a rather obvious bid to speed him along. Contrariness reared its head, urging him to pull out and take it a little slower, but Dorian's libido finally had control and it wasn't inclined to relinquish it. He didn't slow or withdraw any of his fingers. He leaned against Cullen's back, fucking him open with his fingers as hard as he intended to drive his cock into him, and in a burst of inspiration, sank his teeth into the nape of his neck.

The sound it drew out of a Cullen, some loud guttural rumble that might have been a moan as easily as a groan, tore his rapidly dwindling patience to shreds. "Gods," Cullen hissed, near to panting for breath already and they'd barely gotten started. "If this is what a few days does to you..."

Dorian hadn't had any intention on lingering over the preparations when he’d gotten started, but the suggestion that they refrain from sex  _deliberately_  just so that he might more often be encouraged to act like a barbarian was so preposterous that he withdrew his fingers out of spite. Cullen made a sound of protest and started to turn, but Dorian was ready for it and casually shoved him back toward the window. The huff of frustration he got for his effort went ignored, though because he knew it wouldn't be seen, he allowed himself a smile of satisfaction.

"You know," he began, making sure to keep his voice light and casual. No meager feat that, considering he didn't  _feel_  light or casual at that particular moment. "I seem to recall a rather large, muddy fellow promising me that if I agreed to marry him, we  _wouldn't_  have a chaste marriage."

As he spoke, Dorian poured some of the oil onto his palm and started rubbing it over his cock. After having gone so long without sex of any sort, even the touch of his own hand made pleasure curl low in his stomach and his heartbeat quicken. It was tempting to keep going, to let his fingers tightly encircle his flesh and allow the slick glide of his fist to guide him to completion. And for a few seconds, he entertained the idea by giving himself a couple quick strokes.

"Dorian," Cullen said, his low, strained voice redirecting Dorian's attention off of himself and back to what he'd been in the middle of doing.

"Hm? My apologies." Reluctant though he was to stop, Dorian slid his hand down to the base of his cock and took hold of it in a way meant to steady it, not provide further sensation. "I thought by advocating for more infrequent sex, you were not interested in proceeding at the moment."

Goading him often provoked quite interesting results and this was no exception. "You're trying my patience," Cullen growled, his voice dipping even lower.

Whether it was the sound or the threat that caused lust to sear through his body like one of his most powerful fireballs was irrelevant. Dorian simply acted on it. Taking hold of Cullen's hip with his free hand, he held him still as he moved forward, pressing up against the tight muscle of his hole and then pushing beyond it. That brief pressure against the head of his cock before the muscle relaxed and admitted him made his breath catch. Cullen's too, from the sound of it.

On the last dying gasp of his patience, he slid in slowly, trying to give Cullen time to adjust without stopping completely. He needn't have bothered. Cullen must have been reassessing his decision to not to participate, because before Dorian was halfway there, he suddenly pushed backward, fully enveloping his cock in tight, heated flesh.

" _Fuck,_ " he hissed involuntarily, attention so thoroughly focused on the way Cullen felt around him that he didn't realize that he was speaking at all.

"Aye," Cullen agreed, somehow managing to sound smug despite his struggle to catch his breath. "That's the idea."

Dorian shut him up with a sharp thrust. An equally sharp comment about unwanted sass rattled around half-formed in his mind, but in the interest of not diverting the attention needed to mold it into its proper witty glory from more pleasurable pursuits, he settled for another thrust. And another. By the abrupt cessation of commentary, Cullen had evidently received the message.

And Dorian had found a pace that was working remarkably well for him. At the rate he was going, he wasn't going to last very long and he knew it, but he also didn't care. They could take their time later that evening. Because unless the damnable dragon arrived and burned the fortress down around them, there  _would_  be a later that evening.

His oily hand slipped where it was gripped tight to Cullen's hip, momentarily causing his hips jerk erratically. Renewing his hold, he found the rhythm again almost immediately. Cullen's hands were still braced against the sill, though his fingers had curled as far as it allowed and his knuckles were turning a bit white. His head hung down between his shoulders, which heaved with each breath he took and each hard thrust Dorian gave him. There was a drop of sweat sliding down his back, following the ridge of his spine. Dipping his head, Dorian licked it off his skin.

"Dorian, I need—"

"No," Dorian cut him off firmly, straightening up and pointedly tightening his grip on his hips.

He knew exactly what he needed. The way they were standing, there was no way to get a glimpse of Cullen's cock, but Dorian had seen it often enough during sex that he could easily imagine it. Hard and red, tip glistening with moisture, erect between his thighs and receiving no stimulation but whatever brief brushes it made with the cold stone.

"Not until I say so," he continued, attempting stern and landing somewhere too near panting for it to be believable.

It might have been enough. Cullen often respected a delay in his own pleasure whenever Dorian got in the mood to  _play_. But his earlier attitude notwithstanding, Dorian knew that he needed this just as badly and that he might not be willing to concede to the demand to wait. To emphasize that he was going to wait whether he wished to or not, Dorian quickly wove a band of force around the base of Cullen's cock.

He bucked against him as it tightened, whatever he might have said lost in a low, frustrated moan. Dorian held him still before he could do it again. He was so fucking close, he wasn't going to lose it now.

"I've still..." His breath hitched on the next thrust as the burst of sensation brought him precariously close to the brink. "I've still use for..." Another rock forward and he went over the edge.

The pleasure rushed through his body like a river breaking through a dam, overwhelming his senses and his ability to speak. His hips moved without his conscious control, short, quick movements that slowed as he spent himself inside Cullen. The strength bled out of his grip and without quite being aware of it, he slumped forward against his back and just  _felt_.

For all of his impatience and need, Cullen didn't hasten him through it and because of that, Dorian didn't let himself linger in the indulgence for more than a few seconds. He would have liked to have done so; Cullen was comfortable and warm, and even with the window open admitting the cold air, the sun was shining in at just the right angle to bathe them in its meager heat. But Dorian wasn't completely selfish, whatever he liked to claim publicly. His heart was still beating fast as he straightened up and eased himself out of Cullen, who took the loss of fullness with only the softest sound of protest.

"Do you think you're ready to participate?" Dorian asked casually, appreciatively eyeing the broad expanse of Cullen's back.

All he got back in answer was a low, wordless growl that sounded as feral as anything he might have encountered on those mountains with which Cullen had been so enamored.

"I'll take that as a yes, shall I?" He knew he was being insufferable, but he felt too content to care. Nudging Cullen's hip to let him know he could turn, Dorian released the force spell. "Perhaps you'd care to put that hard cock of yours to use and fuck me?"

The words were barely out of his mouth before a dizzying swirl of colors heralded their sudden change of positions. By the time his brain caught up with current events, Cullen had him bent over the windowsill and his trousers pushed down to his knees. The vial of oil was no longer sitting where he'd left it: a mystery quickly solved by a slick finger pushing inside him with nary a word of warning. Despite his orgasm, Dorian felt the faintest hint of desire stirring inside him at all the manhandling.

"That's a yes too, is it?" he inquired cheekily, earning himself a slap on the ass.

One finger working him open quickly turned into three before Dorian could quite process the transitions in between. His cock was still too sensitive to be touched, but his eagerness to feel Cullen inside him was undeniable. And thankfully, Cullen was in no mood to make him wait for it. Just as he was beginning to feel the ache for  _more_ , more was provided. Cullen's cock stretched him open, setting the nerves around his hole alight, and it didn't stop. Cullen pressed inside him without pause, filling him so completely that he spent a few seconds desperately trying to catch his breath.

Cullen didn't wait for that, either. He began moving as soon as he was seated inside him, a steady rock that melted so seamlessly into rapid thrusts that Dorian couldn't quite differentiate between when a smooth fuck became a hard pounding. Though in truth, it didn't actually matter. He gripped the stone of the sill, no longer as cold as he remembered it being, and held on. Cullen's thrusts sent bursts of mind-blanking pleasure through him more than they didn't and before long, he was almost wishing to have Cullen's hand on his cock.

Almost. He wasn't such a young man anymore, sadly. But oh, if he had been...

"Cullen," he gasped out, not entirely certain if he had a destination in mind for that thought or if he merely meant to say his name.

" _My_  turn now," Cullen responded, in a low, possessive snarl that was broken by his harsh breathing.

_So it is_ , Dorian thought amicably enough, relaxing more thoroughly against the windowsill as Cullen renewed his efforts. Beyond Skyhold's walls, the snow-covered mountains practically shone in the sun. As another rush of pleasure overtook him so forcefully that he didn't care if his moan could be heard in the courtyard far below, he decided maybe he could understand Cullen's fascination with the view. It  _was_  rather spectacular.

* * *

It had been two weeks. Two weeks of sleeping indoors on a real bed, practically buried in actual blankets—slightly worn and tattered about the edges, but blankets nonetheless and a definite step up from uncivilized furry pelts—and twined around the always warm, muscular body of his husband. Two weeks of doing nothing more dangerous than paging through the dusty, no longer forgotten books in Skyhold's library, no doubt considered huge by Ferelden's illiterate unwashed masses, and the occasional spar with Cullen and anyone else brave enough to take on a Tevinter altus who no one believed wasn't secretly a blood-mage magister. Two weeks of having regular, uninterrupted sex that was only as hurried as they wanted it to be, whenever they wanted to have it and often more than once a day. Two weeks of a relatively normal, albeit still rather aesthetically depressing for its drab and dilapidated ugliness, life.

Dorian was fairly certain, as he struggled up through the disorienting confusion of fading dreams, that it was a noise that had woken him. Opening his eyes, he found the room awash in thin, morning sunlight. Turning his head, he found Cullen still asleep next to him, his hair a tangle of golden strands on the pillows.  _Might need a bit of a trim_ , Dorian thought, sniffing back a sneeze as a lock of hair brushed up against the tip of his nose.

He listened for a moment, trying to discern the reason for his waking. There were no shouts coming from the courtyard, no yelling or banging echoing through the hallways beyond the thick door to their quarters. No alarms. No commotion. The animals that often kept them company were not present, no doubt already well into their morning routine of hunting or wandering or whatever it was possessed animals—he was including the eagle, Cullen's insistence otherwise be damned—did on a daily basis. He'd accounted for Cullen. But something had awakened him. He was sure of it.

About to give it up as a bad job and go back to sleep, Dorian heard a curious noise emanating from beyond the window. It was muted and difficult to identify. He would have suspected it a sound of impact were it not for a high-pitched clatter and what sounded a bit like a honk. By no means was it loud enough to wake a deeply sleeping person, but it was odd enough that the strangeness of it might have done so.

Loath as he was to leave the warmth of the bed, Dorian decided he could sacrifice a few minutes' comfort for the sake of his inexhaustible curiosity. He snatched up a robe as he passed the chair upon which it was laying and shrugged into it. Yawning, he was casually tying the belt into a loose knot when he reached the window and glanced out.

"Cullen?" he called softly, after a moment's blankly immobile incomprehension.

A reply was not immediately forthcoming. Silence met his summons and lingered for so long that he thought he was going to have to make the call a second time, louder and more insistent. But finally, he heard a quiet response.

"Hm?" Cullen sounded drowsy, as if he was still mostly asleep and reacting on instinct.

"There's something going on outside I think you might want to see," Dorian told him, infusing his voice with a bit more urgency than he had before, hoping that it would penetrate the fog of sleep that must have been shrouding Cullen's mind.

He might have overdone it, because Cullen sat up immediately, looking as awake and alert as he hadn't sounded a few seconds ago. Before Dorian could assure him that it wasn't an emergency, he was out of bed and joining him, naked as the day he'd been born, at the window.

It was a testament to how bizarre the scene was outside that not even Cullen in all of his bare-skinned glory was enough to shift Dorian's attention away from it.

They stood there together for what seemed like whole minutes, neither of them saying a word about what they were witnessing. Then, just as Dorian was about to ask what Cullen made of it, he sighed, so heavily it was as if the entire weight of the world had just fallen upon his shoulders.

"I'll see to this," Cullen muttered under his breath, already moving away from the window.

Curiosity thoroughly piqued, Dorian turned away from the window and joined him in dressing. At least,  _Dorian_  dressed for going out in public. He put on a tunic and matching trousers, covered it all in a complimentary cloak, and hurriedly finger-combed his hair into something resembling a style. Cullen simply belted on his loincloth and strode out into the hallway, mostly naked and evidently comfortable with his hair having more in common with an abandoned bird's nest that had gotten mauled by a rabid dog at some point in its existence than something that grew quite naturally on a person's head.

By the time they reached the courtyard, there was a crowd of curious onlookers all trying to jostle their way out the front gate to get a look at what was going on beyond the wall. Dorian thought it might require a minor fireball or two to convince people to make way for them, but Cullen strode through the tightly packed throng like it was merely water. And the astonishing thing was, it parted just as easily. Without even having to murmur an  _excuse me_ , they were through and passing beyond the guards who'd been keeping a wary, uncomprehending eye on... whatever in the Maker's name was going on outside, presumably waiting for someone with more authority came and deal with it.

_It_  being a tall, heavily muscled man slathered in paint and mud, wearing an enormous headdress made of horns so large and long that Dorian didn't know how his neck hadn't snapped under the weight of it, standing in the midst of a herd of fully grown, shaggy goats. Near the wall were what looked to be a few members of the herd: one either asleep or dead on the rocks, another looking rather dazed, and a third tearing up the handful of plants brave enough to try to grow in the inhospitable climate. Behind the man were a number of other similarly dressed individuals, though none of them were wearing impractical headgear, milling about like children caught in the act of stealing sweets from the kitchen.

"Hail, Movran!" Cullen called to the lunatic with the goats, because  _of course_  he knew the man's name. Dorian could barely remember the names of people he'd met at parties in Minrathous and there Cullen was, evidently on a first name basis with every Avvar currently alive in Thedas.

"Cullen?" Movran— _What an abysmally stupid name_ , Dorian thought critically—paused in the middle of hefting one of the goats. "By Korth's stony arse, what are you doing here?"

_Ah yes, here we go._ Dorian came to a halt, deciding that it would be more entertaining to hang back and watch the exchange from a vantage that afforded him the ability to watch Cullen as well as Movran.  _Traditional Avvar nature nonsense. By the time they're finished calling on their gods and every plant in the area, someone will have drug the Inquisitor out here._

Yet instead of wandering off on a rambling journey through some Avvar myth about snow and mountains that would supposedly answer the question, Cullen skipped it and got straight to the point like a normal person. "The Inquisition aims to prevent another injury to the sky. I came to lend my aid. What of you and your clan?"

Perhaps Movran deemed it too uncivilized to hurl goats at a wall while carrying on a conversation, for he set the poor, disgruntled creature down and straightened up. With the headdress, he was even taller than Cullen, which Dorian assumed was likely the point, though it looked so unwieldy that he couldn't image trying to actually fight in the thing.

"The Inquisitor killed my foolish boy." He gestured toward the fortress. "We came as custom demands."

_Custom?_  Dorian shot a curious glance at Cullen, trying to imagine him throwing animals at buildings in response to the deaths of his clanmates. Theoretically, he could probably do it. Knowing Cullen, and accounting for how strong he was, he could probably throw a goat  _over_ the wall if he really put his heart in it. But that didn't explain why he would do something so nonsensical, and for that reason, Dorian just couldn't see it.

It was killing him to stay quiet. After a moment, he decided it wasn't worth it. "What custom requires a man to throw livestock at buildings?" To his credit, he kept his tone mostly free of judgmental sarcasm.

As Movran's attention slid past Cullen and focused on him, the joviality in his expression faded into scorn. "Take care, Tevinter, for I answer to your kind only with steel."

That probably ought not have come as a surprise, though after the months spent with the Avvar of Red-Lion Hold, Dorian had forgotten how deep the Avvar hatred of Tevinter ran. He opened his mouth to deliver a retort, but Cullen—still quick to come to his defense even when he didn't need him to do it, Maker bless the foolish man—beat him to it.

"Choose your words with care, Movran." Cullen's delivery was so matter-of-fact that it would have been casual, were it not for an audible undercurrent of censure that likely would have been laughable coming from any other unarmed, nearly naked man. Yet there was something in Cullen's stance, perhaps in his very presence, that made it sound like the most dire of warnings. "Aggression toward my husband is aggression toward me."

To Dorian's glee, he had the satisfaction of watching Movran's eyes widen a fraction in surprise. What delightful spectacle might have followed, he would never know, for Hawke and Josephine chose that moment to arrive with a group of guards and apprehend the lot of the intruders, goats included. Cullen requested leave to be present during the course of the proceedings, which Josephine granted without giving Hawke time to object. And because Cullen was involved, and due to the fact that he hadn't made any plans for the day that he would truly regret breaking, Dorian stuck around too.

The matter of the Avvar and what to do with them took up all of the morning and most of the afternoon. Their threat to the Inquisition needed to be assessed. Dorian could have told them that there wasn't much of one, given Movran's penchant for using animals as ineffective weapons, but in the interest of not offending Cullen or casting aspersions on Avvar in general, he kept his mouth shut. Their goats needed fed and looked after. The dead one needed removed. Eventually, someone ran and got Mahanon, who had the unenviable task of making the ultimate decision. How he managed to do it without laughing his whole way through the case, Dorian would never know, but he actually settled on a solution made Dorian and Cullen, standing there in the great hall watching from the sidelines, grin at each other.

Cullen, no doubt, thought turning a bunch of bloodthirsty Avvar loose on the unsuspecting Tevinter citizens who called the Silent Plains home would be an enormous amount of fun. Dorian shared similar feelings, though less for the sake of the Avvar and more because he would have enjoyed watching the chaos unfold for his countrymen as they tried to deal with barbarian invaders.

As they were leaving the hall, Dorian cast a sly glance Cullen's way. "After this business with Corypheus is settled, what would you think about heading north for a little holiday?"

Laughing, Cullen slung his arm around Dorian's shoulders. "I would enjoy that a great deal."

* * *

One marginally tolerable day—it wasn't snowing and the wind was gentle enough that it wasn't cutting through multiple layers of clothing with impunity—about a month and a half after coming to Skyhold, Dorian found himself taking a leisurely stroll through the gardens. He'd spent the morning translating one of the library's old Tevinter books, looking for clues for who precisely Corypheus actually was, and had decided that a break was in order lest he lose his patience with the raucous calls of Leliana's ravens. When he'd stepped outside, he'd had the vague notion to go find Cullen and convince him to have lunch with him, but in the midst of trying to decide where he most likely would be found, Dorian caught a glimpse of Felix heading toward one of the interior doors, carrying a small bundle of scrolls.

Even now, weeks after the spirit had decreed him healed and rejoined the lion, Felix looked as hale as he had immediately after the possession. His appetite had returned to normal and he'd regained some of the weight he'd lost during the course of his illness. Now, he looked like a man on the mend instead of one struggling to exist on borrowed time. it was a relief every time Dorian saw him, and considering that they now lived in the same place for the first time in years, that amounted to quite often daily.

"Felix!" Dorian called out, altering his path to take him closer to his friend.

Hearing his name, Felix paused and turned to face him. "Dorian! I thought you'd gone with the Inquisitor today."

"He asked me to join him, but I was in the midst of tracking an absolutely  _fascinating_  thread of a long-dead magister's ancestry." Unwilling to let the sarcasm stand on its own, Dorian rolled his eyes. Someone had to do it and he genuinely did enjoy research, but there were times when it became exceedingly dull. "Tell me you're up to something more exciting."

"I think that depends on your definition of the term," he replied with easy humor, nodding toward the scrolls. "Gatsi and I have been discussing the best way to shore up the crumbling foundation over by the prison and I drew up a few ideas for him. I was on my way to drop them off."

When the remnants of the Inquisition had reached Skyhold and discovered a fortress in disarray, Felix's extensive mathematical knowledge had led him to accepting the unlikely position as a makeshift architect. Although it hadn't been his field of study, he'd taken to it quite easily and when the dwarven stonemason from Orzammar had turned up, the two of them had developed an odd friendship. Dorian had wandered past them one day and thought the dwarf rather dour and far too serious to appreciate someone as effervescent as Felix could be, but somehow, they were still working congenially together. Dorian could only assume it was because Felix was the first person Sturhald had met outside of Orzammar who not only listened to him go on and on about rocks but genuinely seemed interested in the subject.

"I don't suppose you'd care to stop in at the Herald's Rest and get a bite to eat afterward, would you?" Dorian inquired.

"And miss the latest gossip about Strong-Arms?" The mock-offended stare Dorian gave him did nothing to curb the smirk that stole across Felix's mouth. "Not on your life."

It didn't take very long to deliver the scrolls. Felix probably would have spent half an hour debating the proper measurements for some archway Gatsi wanted to implement in their construction efforts, but Dorian's presence expedited the conversation significantly. After half an hour had actually passed, they were ensconced at a table on the upper floor of the tavern, well away from the hustle and bustle of the main room, with glasses of wine and plates of the unfortunately bland Fereldan fare to which Dorian was tragically becoming accustomed.

Felix hadn't immediately pressed him for details about Cullen, but Dorian knew his oldest friend far too well. He was waiting for the perfect moment, biding his time until Dorian had had enough wine to loosen his tongue. But unbeknownst to Felix, he was playing his own game and when he saw the opportunity to strike, he went in with all the precision of an Antivan Crow.

"How's the commander doing these days?" Dorian asked casually, after a nonchalant sip from his glass.

"Carver?" Distracted by stirring his meat and potatoes around in a futile attempt to magically coax flavor out of the plate, Felix shrugged. "He's busy. Too busy, honestly. That man does not know how to delegate."

Behind the glass, Dorian allowed himself a gleeful smirk. "Too busy for what, exactly?"

He must have sounded too pleased with himself, because Felix's attention snapped up to his face. "Don't start."

Dorian affected an expression of bewildered innocence. "Start what?"

"I know what you're doing."

"Having a conversation with my closest friend? How very astute." Dropping the light sarcasm, Dorian leaned forward slightly. "Felix, you know I mean no harm." Dare he go on? He spared a moment to examine how sentimental he felt like being and whether anyone was close enough to overhear him. There was no one on this side of the tavern and though it pained him to do it, he knew he would gain more by giving more. Still, he lowered his voice somewhat in a precautionary measure. "I've not seen you spend so much time with someone like this before and I just want to know that you're happy."

Instead of recognizing the selfless gesture Dorian was making by being straightforward and open about his feelings, Felix just snorted in what sounded suspiciously like amusement. "Why would I spend time with someone if it made me unhappy?" He didn't wait for an answer, just flicked an accusatory finger in Dorian's direction. "And I've spent far more time with you. Did you interrogate me then?"

"Oh, for Andraste’s sake, I'm not interrogating you." Dorian set his glass down. "A southern templar who hasn't exactly been subtle about his dislike for Tevinters is sniffing around my best friend. I think I'm well within my rights to make sure the dim-witted fool isn't subjecting you to his prejudices."

Felix eyed him in silence for a time, then picked up his glass and took a leisurely sip of wine. "Carver comes from Kirkwall. You've heard the stories, yes? About the apostate who blew up the chantry and killed all those people?"

"You know I've been forced to spent time with that tiresome dwarf," Dorian remarked dryly. "I know all about it. Much more than I care to know, if I'm being honest."

He knew the point Felix was trying to make. He'd listened to Varric tell his tales of Kirkwall and its Champion, Garrett Hawke, for hours. And in the telling, he'd heard all about their odd coterie of associates. The former slave Fenris, who made killing Tevinters something of an intensely personal hobby and apparently had something of an on-going interpersonal drama with the beloved Champion. The pirate Isabela, who spent most of her time chasing fortune, attractive warriors, and oversized headwear. The blood mage Merrill, who everyone was strangely tolerant of despite their deep-seated disgust at blood magic. The apostate abomination Anders, whose actions caused the deaths of countless people through not only the destruction of the chantry but also the war. The no-nonsense guard captain Aveline, who evidently acted as everyone's surrogate mother and moral compass and incidentally was as comically hopeless at romance as Fenris. The would-be Prince of Starkhaven, Sebastian, who was either remarkably attractive or an outstanding archer, depending on the course of the particular tale Varric was in the midst of telling. And Carver Hawke, the Champion's younger brother who'd been a headstrong arse for most of his association with Varric and had, in a spiteful fit of pique, run off to join the Templar Order, only to spend his time there  _hiding_  the fact that his brother was a mage.

According to Varric, Carver was still an arse and would likely die an arse, but he wasn't quite as large of one as he used to be and was now on friendly terms with his brother. So Dorian understood that his dislike of Tevinters wasn't based on irrational prejudice and had everything to do with his experiences in Kirkwall and the stories his brother-in-law had told of suffering at the hands of Danarius. Even at his most uncharitable, Dorian couldn't deny that if his own opinion on Tevinter and the people that called it home was shaped by knowledge of Danarius, he would hate the whole country too.

Which was all well and good, to be sure, but it did nothing to assuage Dorian's wariness. Because it wasn't  _his_  dealings with Carver that he was concerned about here. It was Felix. And if there was one person that made Dorian inclined to disregard reasonable reactions to practically everything, it was Felix. Especially now that he had miraculously escaped a gruesome death. His overprotectiveness wasn't his fault. It was the fault of the darkspawn that had caused the tragedy in the first place, and if Felix wanted to point fingers, he could damn well point them in the right direction.

Felix knew it, too. Dorian could see it in the way the lines of tension in his expression started to soften and he ever so subtly relaxed back against his chair. "I  _can_  take care of myself. You needn't pick up my father's mantle."

It could've been a sly attempt to change the subject and throw Dorian off-course. Felix wasn't terribly underhanded, but he was clever and he could be an outrageous brat when he chose to be. Gereon was another subject he had yet to broach with Felix and this was the perfect opportunity. He knew, however, that if he took it, whether Felix intended it as a distraction or not, they would likely never return to the subject of Carver Hawke.

"Did you or did you not subject Cullen to rigorous questioning on the way from Redcliffe to Haven when you thought I wasn't paying attention?"

Dorian had him and they both knew it, but Felix wasn't going down without a fight. "That wasn't—"

"I'll just go have a little talk with the commander, shall I?" He made as if he were going to get up and go hunt down Hawke immediately. It was the sort of bluff that wasn't truly a bluff at all. If the only way he could get answers was by questioning the less desirable source, so be it.

"Oh, sit down," Felix sighed, looking rather put out with him. Dorian didn't take it to heart. This was hardly the first conversation of this nature that they'd had over the course of their friendship, though their positions were usually reversed. It was well past time that Felix got a taste of his own medicine. "What is it you want to know?"

He meant to ask the obvious questions. About the nature of their association. About whether they'd gotten physical or not, if it turned out that Felix returned Hawke's interest. But he didn't know Felix to keep secrets from him, so what found its way out of his mouth, less casual and slightly more serious—he would never admit to being somewhat hurt by this unwillingness to share relationship details—inquiry. "Why are you so reluctant to talk about this with me?"

Felix must have translated the change in tone properly, because he sighed again, this time considerably less irritated, and shook his head. "That's not—I'm not trying to shut you out. It's just that..." Trailing off, he frowned pensively. "It's hard to explain."

"Are you able to try?" Dorian asked gently, well-meaning nosiness replaced with the genuine concern of a friend.

"I made peace with dying quite some time ago," Felix said quietly, with an ease that Dorian knew wasn't feigned. "Sometimes all of this..." He gestured toward the tavern, and to the world beyond it, with a small twist of his wrist. "It seems like a dream. Like those stories of the Fade everybody talks about, where the demons make you believe something you want just so you agree with them."

Something tight and unpleasant slithered up through Dorian's chest.  _Heartburn from this atrocious food_ , he told himself and took a long drink of wine to smother it. When that didn't help, he took another.

"If you've the wherewithal to question the authenticity of what's happening, you would see through the fantasy to the reality beneath it," Dorian offered, his own experience with the temptations of demons in the Fade lending some authority to his voice. "Besides, there's always something wrong with the light. They never manage to get it right. There's a greenish tint to it every time."

Felix gave him a wry smile. "Thank you for the riveting lesson, Enchanter Pavus."

"Ugh, don't remind me." For good theatrical measure, Dorian added a shudder of disgust. "Can you imagine how dreadfully boring that would have been? Promoting up through the ranks of the Circle like a good heir, bringing my father and my wife such pride? Horrible."

Snorting in amusement, Felix emptied his glass. It wasn't until he was returning it to the table that he spoke further. "It's foolish, I know. I do. It just feels like if I start making plans for the future, I'll lose them all over again."

That was something Dorian understood all too well, though not for the same reasons. "Selkor has assured us that it's permanent. And while I wouldn't suggest getting attacked by darkspawn again, if you do, I'm sure he'll come to the rescue a second time."

The look he got from Felix was a little bland, but after a moment, he admitted, "I like him. Quite a bit, actually. And before you start harping on it, I'd like to remind you that you  _married_  a Fereldan."

Dorian held up his hands in surrender and kept his mouth shut. As if he would  _dream_  of casting aspersions on Fereldans.

After eyeing him in silence for a moment, waiting for him to say something sarcastic, Felix continued. "We come here often for drinks. He's been teaching me some basic combat skills. I'm not terribly good at it, honestly, but he thought I should learn more than I knew. Not to join the army, obviously, but just in case there's another attack."

Hawke had never exuded patience during any of the encounters Dorian had had with him, so it was difficult imagining him trying to teach Felix anything. "Is he actually  _teaching_  you things or just using the lessons as foreplay?"

"Dorian!"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh please. As you've already pointed out, I married a Fereldan."

That made Felix laugh. "I  _am_  learning, yes."

"About combat?"

Felix kicked him under the table. "Now I know how you and Cullen spend your time. Have you ever actually spoken to him at all?"

"You aren't nearly as amusing as you think you are," Dorian replied, sniffing in haughty disdain.

All he got for his trouble was Felix's laughter. But it was that bright, cheerful laughter that he thought would be silenced by the blight forever; in light of that not being the case, Dorian figured he could forgive him for it. "If you're fishing around for a promise that I'll tell you immediately if I ever sleep with him, fine. I promise."

The melodramatic gasp of shock Dorian uttered at that revelation was so over the top that he nearly choked himself with it. " _If?_ " His hand flew to his chest as if to keep his heart inside it as he let his feigned shock melt into disappointment. "Felix Alexius," he said with mock severity. "I taught you better than that."

"I don't know if you've noticed," Felix retorted dryly, "but there's a war on right now. A large one. I think someone even mentioned the end of the world once?"

"Still not amusing," Dorian primly reminded him.

Leaning forward, Felix reached across the table and touched his hand, all jesting set aside for quiet sincerity. "You really don't have to worry, Dorian."

Deciding that he could be moved to give a little of that sincerity back, he asked, "It really doesn't bother him that you're from Tevinter? Not that it should, mind you, but he  _is_  a southern templar and he acts like it pains him to be in the same room with me."

Opening his mouth, Felix visibly paused, as if needing a moment to reorder his thoughts. Dorian gave him a narrow-eyed look, daring him to say what he suspected was poised on the tip of his tongue. In a tone laden with entirely too much conciliatory diplomacy, he said instead, "He  _was_  a southern templar. He left the Order when he left Kirkwall. And he stopped taking lyrium before that."

That was news to Dorian. He could still smell the scent of it on him when they were in the same room. Granted, it wasn't terribly strong, but even the tiniest hint of it was immediately recognizable.

"Why did he stop taking it? I thought the southern templars drew their power from it."

Felix nodded. "They do. He didn't believe the power was worth the cost."

That sounded disturbingly admirable and noble. Most people, especially people who'd once been poor refugees in a miserable place that hadn't welcomed them, tended to cling desperately to power. Voluntarily giving it up was nearly unheard of in Tevinter. Fereldans couldn't be  _that_  different.

"So he's a  _former_ southern templar with an attitude problem and a general dislike of everybody, excluding you?" Dorian lightly teased. "Is that about right?"

The smile Felix gave him was haughty and smug. "Perhaps I'm just special."

_You are_ , Dorian thought, though he wouldn't contribute to Felix's over-inflated ego by voicing it out loud. "I suppose that means I won't be needing to play chaperone after all."

Something strange happened to Felix's expression. For an instant, it seemed to waver between an amused smile and an oddly pensive frown. It settled on a smile, but Dorian wasn't willing to ignore what he'd seen. "What is it?"

"Hm?"

Never in all the time that he'd known him had Felix been adept at feigning stupidity. "Felix."

With a faint sigh, he shook his head. "It's not Carver. Don't start fretting again."

"Then...?" Dorian prompted, ignoring the impulse to return the kick he'd been given earlier.

Felix's smile faded as he chewed on his lip. Dorian recognized it as Felix weighing his options and took a slow, steadying breath. Prodding him further on the matter ran the risk of causing him to dismiss the possibility of disclosure outright and change the course of the conversation.

"Have you been to see my father since Redcliffe?" Felix asked curiously, both his expression and his tone frustratingly devoid of any indication of what he might be hoping to hear.

The question caught Dorian a little off-balance, though he disguised it with an oh-so-casual shrug. "I'm afraid I haven't had the time."

He felt a tiny prick of guilt at the half-truth, but it  _was_  partially true. Although it was neither his responsibility nor area of expertise, making Skyhold habitable was a group effort for everybody who lived there. Maybe he didn't build scaffolding or design structures like Felix was doing, but he  _had_  pitched in to clean up and organize the library's deplorable state of disarray. And when he wasn't lending a hand there, he was researching or training—himself and occasionally other mages—or accompanying Mahanon on all manner of tasks that all too often tended to end up being a waste of his time.

Had he truly wished to visit his former mentor, he could have done it. He certainly made enough time for Felix and Cullen. But the truth was, he didn't know how to speak with Gereon anymore. They hadn't reconciled after their falling out and seeing firsthand the destruction Gereon was willing to cause for nothing made it more difficult to see a way out of their estrangement. Dorian was angry. Deeply disappointed, betrayed, and furious at Gereon for casting aside his principles and not only aligning himself with a  _Tevinter supremacy_   _cult_  but also a mad darkspawn that wanted to destroy the world. How in the Maker's name he thought that would  _help_  Felix was beyond Dorian's ability to comprehend.

Once or twice, Dorian had considered making an attempt to visit him in the laboratory that the Inquisitor had him working in, but every time he imagined how it would go, all he could see was shouting at him until he went hoarse and leaving angrier than he'd come. It hadn't seemed worth the bother when there were so many other, more productive and enjoyable uses for his time and effort.

"Is there any chance you'd be willing to go with me?" Felix continued, drawing him out of his self-reflection.

"Hmm?" Dorian looked up from his glass in surprise. "Why? Has he asked to see me?"

"I don't know." To his surprise, Felix's expression became awfully sheepish. "I haven't been to see him either." As Dorian continued to stare at him, the sheepishness turned mulish. "Stop looking at me like that. You haven't either."

"Forgive me." He meant it, too. "I just hadn't expected..." At a loss, he let that fumbled explanation fade. "Why haven't you?"

Shoulders slumping, Felix turned his attention to his uninspired food. "I couldn't while I was... recovering and now, what do I tell him to explain what's happened?"

Although he could sympathize with what Felix was saying—how  _did_ one tell one's father that spirit possession cured one's illness?—Dorian also felt compelled to point out one very salient fact. "He joined a cult, aligned himself with a mad  _darkspawn_ , and nearly destroyed the world. I really don't think his opinion matters, especially where your recovery is concerned."

Felix snorted in subdued humor as he glanced up from his plate. "You make a valid argument."

Dorian was under no illusion that his opinion on the whole fiasco was important. Just as his estrangement from his own father was ultimately his business, so too was Felix's relationship with Gereon. He couldn't push him one way or another or try to change his mind on what to do, not when he wouldn't want Felix trying to meddle in  _his_  familial affairs. All he  _could_  do was try to be supportive of whatever course his friend ultimately chose.

"Tell him as much or as little was you want," he advised, waving his hand. "The truth. That it was some obscure southern cure no one had ever heard of before. That it was some kind of incomprehensible Avvar mysticism. Nothing at all. Whatever  _you_  want to say about it. It's your life, Felix." Memories of that nightmarish future caused his voice to take on a harder edge. "You don't owe him anything now."

They lapsed into silence for a few minutes, as Felix seemed to mull over what he'd said and Dorian contemplated whether he wanted to finish what remained of his lunch or just give up on it. The likelihood of something better arriving with merchants by dinner time was slim to nil, but even so, he found himself setting down his fork and pushing the leftovers away to a safe, unoffensive distance.

When Felix finally spoke, it was to ask, "What would you do?"

The question made him laugh, though not unkindly. "You recall that I dealt with my familial problems by running away from home, yes?"

Lifting his eyebrows, Felix made a show of looking pointedly around the tavern. Dorian conveyed his thoroughly unimpressed opinion of that response with a haughty sniff. That single sound contained within it a wealth of meaning.  _As if accompanying your father's entourage in luxury and comfort is the same as_ camping _alone in the wilderness of Ferelden_ , it said.  _My flight has been cold, arduous, and dirty. There's hardly a comparison._ From the dryly amused, mostly tolerant way Felix rolled his eyes, he took that sniff's meaning clearly.

"Truly, Felix," Dorian said a moment later, all jesting laid aside for the seriousness the matter sincerely deserved." You must do as your heart bids. He is your father and yours is the only opinion that matters here. If you wish me to accompany you while you speak to him, surely you know that I will."

He had no idea what he would say to Gereon or even if he ought to say anything at all, but he would unquestionably lend Felix his support. Perhaps it would even be better if he stayed silent through the duration. Unleashing a torrent of accusations upon his former mentor would only distract from Felix's presence and what he meant to get out of the meeting. As much as Dorian liked being the center of attention, he had no wish to steal it from Felix now.

Quite honestly, he suspected that he'd done it more than enough in the past.

If Felix felt the same, however, he said nothing to that effect. He merely gave Dorian a smile of open gratitude. "Thank you, my friend."

Although it would have undoubtedly been easier on them both to head to the laboratory straightaway and put the uncomfortable ordeal behind them, they did not visit Alexius that day. Nor did they visit him the next. A minor architectural emergency drew Felix away from Dorian's side as they left the tavern and kept him busy through the night. The following morning, the Inquisitor asked Dorian—and by association, Cullen and his animal companions—to accompany him on a task that took them out of Skyhold for a week. When they returned, it was to discover that Felix had joined Hawke and a contingent of Inquisition soldiers on a mission to repair a bridge on the main road.

Hawke, Josephine told him when he'd inquired during an excruciatingly professional conversation that was most certainly  _not_  a gossip session, evidently didn't take to being cooped up in an office and often embarked on projects that gave him an opportunity to stretch his legs without taking him too far away. Sadly, when he teased her about whether the company of soldiers was a diplomatic way to say that Felix and Hawke had ventured off on a journey of a more romantic nature, she assured him that the trip was legitimate. A few days later, Felix returned and corroborated her dull version of events. However, he was in good spirits, leading Dorian to surmise that it hadn't been  _all_ work and no play, and suggested they see his father that day.

Ever one to appreciate a sense of drama, Dorian led the way down one of the uninhabited wings of the fortress and was the first to approach the large room in which he knew Gereon worked. There were guards in the hallway, keeping a watchful on the man within without setting foot inside and risking getting in his way. One of them nodded acknowledgement to Dorian upon catching sight of him and gestured for him to proceed past them.

He got as far as the door, where he lingered long enough to peer inside. Gereon was sitting at a desk, reading a book that was recognizable as one belonging to Skyhold's library, looking significantly older and more worn than Dorian could ever remember seeing him. But he only had a few seconds to study him unobserved. No sooner had he gotten a good look at him than Gereon had lifted his gaze, caught sight of him, and set the book down.

"Dorian," he greeted, voice devoid of the arrogance and confidence he'd displayed in Redcliffe. The anger, too, was gone. In its place was a bone-deep kind of weariness that left no space for curiosity or disappointment.

All of the things Dorian might have said to him evaporated from his tongue, leaving him with only a simple comment. "You've a visitor," he told him calmly, stepping out of the way.

"Hello, Father," Felix murmured softly, moving into the doorway.

From his vantage a few paces away, Dorian watched as Gereon rose swiftly to his feet. "Felix?" He shook his head, disbelieving, and came out from behind the desk. "What are you—I thought...."

"That I went back to Tevinter to die?" Felix hazarded a guess, though it contained none of the rancor that Dorian knew would have been present if he stood in Felix's place. "No, I was persuaded to stay."

In another lifetime, where rifts both magical and figurative hadn't been torn open, Dorian could imagine this conversation taking place in a lighter, warmer context. A miraculous recovery. A joyous reunion. And Dorian interjecting teasing comments about the brawny Fereldan who had done a significant portion of the  _persuasion_. He could see it, hear it, all so clearly that it pinched  at his chest and made parts of it ache.

"But you..." Gereon was nearer now; close enough to see Felix's face plainly in the candlelight yet not so close that he could touch him. "What has happened? You look so..." Again he trailed off, likely this time because he could not reconcile what he knew against what his eyes were telling him.

"Healthy?" Felix nodded, taking a step into the room. Behind him, Dorian casually leaned back against the wall, loosely folding his arms over his chest. "They tell me that I'm cured now. Forgotten magic, cultivated by the mages of the Avvar clans in the south, is to thank for that."

Gereon's bewildered disbelief did not fade and although there was nothing stopping him from doing it, he did not move closer to his son. "That cannot be. We searched everywhere for a cure."

_We._ It was possible that he no longer saw Dorian or the soldiers that guarded him, so intently was his gaze focused on Felix. Perhaps he was no longer even conscious of their existence. He certainly spared Dorian no further attention. Yet despite that, and the poor opinion of Dorian he likely now held, he still acknowledged the contributions Dorian had made to the research effort in such an offhand manner that it was obvious he hadn't done it consciously. That unpleasant ache grew somewhat sharper.

"Not everywhere."

From his position, Dorian couldn't see Felix's expression, but he recognized a smile when he heard it in his voice. If he held anger toward his father or anything like disappointment or disgust for what he'd done, it wasn't readily apparent. Nor was it likely that Felix would parade it out in front of an audience even if he did feel it. Regardless of what had happened, Dorian knew that Felix still bore a great deal of love and respect for his father. And for all of his intelligence and common sense, he could be frustratingly understanding and forgiving.

That was the trouble with Felix, really. He was a good man, wise beyond his nearly thirty years. A veritable paragon of all the qualities the magisters ought to have aspired to and had somehow lost sight of in their quest for power. Dorian didn’t know how he’d managed to survive being his friend all these years.

Eavesdropping on a conversation that was the epitome of none of his business, however curious he might have been to hear it, was in poor taste, so Dorian casually slipped back out of the doorway. Neither Felix nor Gereon took notice, further validating his belief that they might need a bit of privacy. Shutting the door to ensure that they had it to the fullest extent possible likely went against the instructions that his guards had been given, but Dorian was an intelligent, creative man and he was friendly enough to enjoy striking up conversations with anyone.

For the next hour and a half, while Felix and his father discussed Felix's condition and the business with Corypheus and the Venatori, Dorian and the guards gossiped about the Inquisitor, his advisors, his closest friends, some of the stranger members of the Inquisition, and inevitably, Cullen.  _Everyone_ knew Cullen. The fortress was enormous and the numbers that passed through its gates grew larger every day, yet somehow, Dorian had yet to find someone who hadn't spoken with him. And even more surprising than Cullen's bizarre ability to associate with everybody who even glanced sideways at his general vicinity was that, after encountering him, the individual's attitude to Dorian subtly changed. Still wary, as befitting anyone with common sense and even the vaguest notion of Tevinter, yet no longer openly hostile or fearful.

The guards were no exception. They were just the sort of brutish-looking Fereldans that Dorian would have wagered a small fortune in favor of their having a grudge against him for no reason save his birthplace, but instead of watching him suspiciously and maintaining contact with their weapons, they spoke easily with him. After about half an hour, they were joking with him and telling him amusing anecdotes about their experiences with Cullen. And Dorian, unable to help himself upon finding out that they were more than just one-time acquaintances, happily passed along a few embarrassing stories of his time in Red-Lion Hold so that they might have something to tease Cullen about later.

It was all rather entertaining, truth be told, and by the time Felix emerged from the room, Dorian no longer felt the desire to drown the emotional discomfort he'd been feeling about meeting with Gereon in a few bottles of wine. Felix too seemed surprisingly upbeat, and when Dorian asked him about it on the way back to the more populated parts of the fortress, Felix had smiled serenely, patted him on the shoulder, and told him that everything would be fine in time.

_Typical Felix,_ he thought fondly.  _Always trying to see the best in everything._ He would never tell him in so many words—best friend though he was, that was a level of emotional honesty and vulnerability that was out of Dorian's reach without the aid of so much alcohol that it might actually kill him—but Felix was the closest thing to a role model that he had. And watching him with his father, seeing firsthand the possibility of their relationship surviving despite the egregiousness of Gereon's actions, gave him hope that perhaps one day, at some distant point far in the future, he might find a similar sliver of a chance with his own father.

Stranger things had happened.

A few weeks later, that disgustingly optimistic outlook came back to bite him quite painfully in the ass. It began with Mahanon paying him a visit one afternoon. That in itself wasn't a terribly unusual occurrence. As they had gotten to know one another, Dorian and the Inquisitor had struck up what just might have been a genuine friendship. They chatted regularly in Skyhold and frequently took meals together. More often than not, Mahanon either invited him along on whatever errand took him out into the wilds of Thedas or specifically requested that he join him.

So when he arrived at the part of the library Dorian had claimed as his own early in the Inquisition's reclamation of the fortress, he didn't think anything of it. Not until he glanced up from his tome and caught a glimpse of Mahanon's somber expression. Ever straightforward—a trait Dorian appreciated a great deal in others, even if he rarely wished to emulate it—he got right to the point: Dorian's family wanted him to return to Tevinter and, true to form, preferred to accomplish the task through lies and treachery instead of simply making contact with their son directly.

Although the visit cast a pall over Dorian's otherwise pleasant day, Mahanon choosing to come to him with the letter, instead of concocting some disingenuous reason for him to travel to Redcliffe and into the ambush the so-called  _representative_  of the family was laying for him, had the unconscious side-effect of cementing that friendship into something that he would only later come to recognize as unbreakable. Because the decision about what to do was left to him, he chose to go and Mahanon left shortly thereafter to make ready preparations for departure in the morning. It was another mark in favor of their friendship; even without knowing the full story of Dorian's estrangement with his family, he was willing to devote valuable time he might have better spent elsewhere to accompanying him to Redcliffe to sort everything out.

Cullen, of course, volunteered to go before Dorian had finished telling him of what had occurred. Like the Inquisitor, he was not privy to the whole tale. Dorian had not spoken of his family since that long ago night beside the fire and Cullen, still so damnably considerate, had not asked him further questions. Even when he told him of his conversation with Mahanon, Cullen merely listened until he finished, asked to see the letter again, and then offered his opinion.

Like Dorian, he thought it a trap. Moreover, he suspected that it would be a small army lying in wait to apprehend Dorian and spirit him back to Tevinter. To that end, he believed it prudent that he not only join them on their trip to Redcliffe, but also scout the area around and ahead of them with Selkor and Falkyr to ensure that Dorian avoided capture. He didn't have to explicitly state that he meant to kill everyone he found for Dorian to know that Cullen would show no mercy to those that meant him harm, whether they were family or strangers. It was foolish to find comfort in such protectiveness. Dorian was far from defenseless and they both well knew that. Yet it served as another reminder that he was a cherished part of Cullen's life, and for that, he couldn't find it within himself to take offense.

Dorian braced for having to reopen the wounds his father had left him with in order to at last explain the whole sordid fiasco to Cullen, but just like before, he didn't ask why Dorian wished to avoid returning home or why his family was so adamant that he do so. He simply asked if he wanted to return, and when Dorian emphatically said no, he nodded grimly and assured him that he would not. Try though he might to tell himself not to be a romantic idiot—despite the way he behaved, Cullen was not invincible and every unnecessary battle ran the risk of stealing away both him and the happiness he brought to Dorian's life—Dorian couldn’t help believing him.

They set off in the morning in as small a party as they dared: Mahanon, Dorian, Cullen, the two animals, and Solas. Dorian wasn't overly thrilled about that last addition, though it was as rare for Mahanon to travel outside of Skyhold without Solas as it was for him to do the same without Cullen. And if he would not be inclined to leave Cullen behind, he couldn't very well demand the same of the Inquisitor. They might not have been married, and no matter how creatively Dorian posed the question to each of them, neither elf was willing to admit that they were lovers, but it was difficult to believe that they harbored no romantic inclinations toward one another. There was no subtlety in the looks they shared and it was even more blatant in the way one looked at the other when it seemed that he was clueless about being observed.

With Cullen largely absent during the bulk of the journey, too busy ranging ahead and behind them with Selkor and Falkyr in an effort to locate and deal with any problems that the Pavus family or random bandits might have in store for them, Dorian was relegated to seeking a distraction from his increasingly dark thoughts by nosing into his companions' personal lives. He teased them both whenever the opportunity presented itself, which was quite often, and when he wasn't trying to pry incriminating admissions out of them, they talked about magic. Sharing diverse magical theories and anecdotes of spells gone wrong, spells gone right, and misadventures in the Fade, was all very fascinating and Dorian quite enjoyed it. But privately, he was just a  _tad_  disappointed he couldn't get either of them to confess to anything scandalous that he could share with Cullen and Felix later.

The journey itself seemed to both drag on far longer than it ought to have done and fly by much faster than previous trips to Redcliffe had. Dorian was equally conflicted, paradoxically wishing that they could get it over with as soon as possible while at the same time hoping something more important might interrupt their travels and postpone the inevitable confrontation, and further disappointment in his family, a little while longer. Although he did his best to avoid thinking about it, he spent a great deal of time trying to imagine what awaited them at their destination. He ran through dozens of scenarios, from arriving to find nothing to being smuggled back to Tevinter in chains, and absolutely none of it prepared him for what they actually found.

His father. His fucking  _father_  had come to Ferelden. In the moment, astonished and furious while standing opposite him in a dilapidated tavern's common room, Dorian wasn't capable of understanding the implications of such a decision. Even after Mahanon convinced him not to storm off without first hearing him out and he actually had a lengthy, strangely honest conversation with Halward, he remained oblivious to what it might mean. He spent the entirety of the return trip back to Skyhold lost in thought, barely saying a word to anyone, and still there were aspects of his father's unexpected appearance so far south that eluded his ability to explain.

None of his companions remarked on his subdued demeanor. Perhaps they'd discussed it among themselves while he'd been inside the tavern and reached a consensus that giving him space to process the reunion was more preferable than asking after details. Or maybe they'd all had their own experiences with unpleasant familial drama and simply understood that he needed time and privacy to make peace with it. Whatever the case, the others left him alone.

Mahanon and Solas kept up an easy-going conversation between them, speaking of a variety of subjects there were too bland to catch Dorian's attention and pull him from his reflection. Cullen stayed out in the wilds along the road, presumably scouting their path and hunting with Selkor and Falkyr. He kept closer to the party than he usually did, appearing on the edges of the forests and passing within eyesight so often that eventually Dorian realized that he was keeping an eye on him. But he never rejoined them while they were moving and after they stopped to make camp for the night, he joined Dorian by the fire, offered him a selection of berries he'd collected, and simply sat quietly at his side. When they retired to sleep, he pressed his lips to Dorian's forehead, slid an arm around him, and let him be.

Replaying the conversation he'd had with his father over and over in his mind revealed no hidden pearls of wisdom. Analyzing every look Halward had given him, every inflection and every change in tone in his voice, every turn of phrase and chosen word only frustrated him and left him feeling dissatisfied and unfulfilled. Unsurprising, truly, given how impossible it was to repair the damage between them with a single, albeit open conversation.

He felt uncomfortably raw, like the old, partially unhealed wounds had been torn open all over again. Anger, sadness, disappointment, bittersweet nostalgia, and an uneasy kind of longing formed a chaotic maelstrom inside him. The constant shifting of his emotions did nothing to help him sort through it or find peace with any of it. By the time they reached Skyhold, only one thing was clear: he owed Cullen an apology for how he was behaving.

Not wishing to display vulnerability in front of Solas or even Mahanon was one thing. Understandable in the case of the former and forgivable in that of the latter. But Cullen was his husband. They  _loved_  one another. And if Dorian couldn't find it within himself to discuss any of it with him, or at the very least explain what happened and why, then there was no hope for him. Worse, perhaps, there might not be any hope for  _them_. For how could he claim Cullen as his lifelong partner if he wasn't willing to let him  _be_  that partner?

Their approach did not go unnoticed, allowing time for a small crowd to gather as they brought their horses to a stop in the courtyard. Josephine and Cassandra were standing off to one side, speaking in hushed tones likely meant to disguise the fact that they were arguing quite vehemently over something and failing miserably. Hawke was leaning against a low stone wall nearby, arms folded across his chest and attention ostensibly focused on the gate. But Felix was sitting atop the wall right beside him, speaking animatedly about Maker only knew what, and the hard, forbidding line of Hawke's mouth kept curving upward before he caught himself and straightened it out again. Even Varric was loitering around, undoubtedly spying on all of them in the hopes of gaining inspiration for another one of his trashy novels.

Greetings were exchanged while the party dismounted and for a few minutes the atmosphere was relatively light and carefree. Then Josephine and Cassandra spirited Mahanon away on some urgent unspecified Inquisition business that might have been quickly forgotten were it not for Varric nonchalantly trailing after them. Hawke departed shortly thereafter, whatever good mood he'd gleaned from Felix's company sloughing off of him like a shed skin the further away from him he got. Dorian might have wondered if the two events were related, but Felix was there asking questions and from the corner of his eye he saw Cullen slipping away without a backwards glance.

A pang of  _something_  unpleasant accompanied the sight of that departure, though Dorian chose not to linger on it long enough to definitively identify it. Nothing good ever came from plumbing the depths of such prickly emotions without the aid of a convenient bottle of wine. Of  _that_ , Dorian was absolutely certain. It was to Felix that he first attempted to discuss the events that had transpired in Redcliffe and the way he felt about them. Felix, who understood the intricacies of Tevinter culture and what it often drove otherwise intelligent people to do. Felix, who knew his history and wouldn't need a painful recitation of memories Dorian tried to avoid thinking about in order to understand the full impact of Halward's presence and what he had to say.

Felix, who after patiently and sympathetically listening to him discuss the entire trip backwards and forwards for most of the afternoon, eventually told him rather sternly that if he didn't pull his head out of his arse and speak to his Maker-damned husband, they were going to have  _words_.

Naturally, after so long spent trying to avoid having a conversation, as soon as he wanted to start one, Cullen was nowhere to be found. He parted ways with Felix under the agreement that he was being a bloody idiot and a promise that he would rectify that mistake immediately. But Cullen wasn't in their quarters, the tavern, the training yard, or anywhere else that was even remotely convenient to access. Either he was just missing him, as he roamed across the length and breadth of the fortress, or Cullen had left the fortress entirely, to gone down to the encampment on the valley floor to visit with the multitude of friends he'd made among the soldiers or out into the mountains for reasons that Dorian would likely never understand.

Eventually, knowing that Cullen would need to return from wherever he'd gone to sleep, Dorian retired to their room with a book he'd been meaning to read and a bottle of wine. He built up the fire to blazing with a few pieces of wood and a liberal application of magic, poured himself a glass of wine, sat down in front of the fireplace, and all but buried himself beneath a thick, heavy blanket. Twenty pages in and half a glass down, he heard the door open.

Lifting his head immediately, Dorian peered around the side of the chair. In came Cullen, looking windblown and thoroughly at peace with what had to have been a chilly walk. It wasn't the demeanor one might expect for a man whose husband had been practically ignoring him for a week. Oddly, Dorian couldn't figure out if that made him more apprehensive about having this conversation or less so.

"Forgive me," he said quickly, knowing that if he agonized over the proper phrasing, he might lose his nerve for the whole apology and approach it from a less direct, less emotionally vulnerable angle.

In the middle of shrugging out of a cloak he'd picked up since coming to Skyhold—evidently even the Avvar sometimes grew weary of applying all that mud and opted for a more expedient alternative to freezing to death—Cullen gave him a look of surprise and curiosity. "What is it I'm meant to be forgiving?"

Were their positions reversed, that was exactly the type of question Dorian would have asked. Unlike Cullen's genuine sounding tone,  _his_  would have been cool with false confusion and prickly anticipation. A linguistic trap designed to catch clueless fools who knew not what it was they were actually apologizing for and reveal those remorseful sentiments as the lies they were. Every citizen of Tevinter had skill with the barbed rhetorical question, but Dorian had honed it to a weapon so brutal it was practically an artistic masterpiece.

Yet exposure to Dorian's caustic tongue hadn't sharpened Cullen's in the slightest. Neither his posture nor the set of his face suggested anger or hurt feelings. And though he looked for it, Dorian could glimpse no tension in the way he made his way across the room toward him.

"I've not handled any of this business with my family well." Cullen's apparent acceptance wasn't making any of this easier to say. Dorian thought it should have done so, but the words kept sticking in his throat and his mind refused to stop unhelpfully offering ways to change the subject. Openly discussing his history with his family and his feelings about it was unpleasant enough. It was dreadfully difficult when he couldn't even get himself in agreement on how he ought to be approaching it. "I should have told you of what transpired before I left Tevinter long before this. And these last few days, I've been behaving like a petulant child."

If only Cullen knew what a privilege it was to hear him admit such an unflattering thing. Over the course of his adult life, his parents had accused him of it too many times to count. Felix too wasn't afraid to hold up that particular mirror whenever he lost patience with some of Dorian's more extreme actions. And sometimes, he was even right about it, though Dorian would absolutely never tell him so. Yet here he was, saying those precise words to Cullen of his own volition.

And Cullen, bless his strange barbarian heart, merely smiled gently at him and shook his head. "Winter comes in its time, Dorian, Not ours."

It was all very poetic, but Dorian wasn't in the mood for flowery Avvar nonsense. He held up a staying hand. "Without the Avvar metaphors, if you please. This is difficult enough as it is."

"What is difficult? Speaking with me?" Dorian would have probably taken offense to that, but Cullen sounded amused. He actually looked it too, smiling the way that he was as he came around the chair and knelt in front of him, laying his hands atop Dorian's knees. "I would share your burdens, aye, but they are yours to offer. Not mine to demand. I'll not force you to speak on matters you wish to remain silent."

_What have I done to deserve you?_  It was a question he asked himself frequently, at least once a week, and he had yet to come up with an answer. Even now, after the letter, the journey to and from Redcliffe, and whatever partial explanation Mahanon had given him when he'd exited the tavern to let Dorian and his father speak privately, he knew that Cullen would accept it and let it go. He shouldn't have been willing to do it, but Dorian knew that he was. And because of that, he couldn't allow himself to take the coward's way out for a second time.

He told him then, everything that had happened prior to his decision to flee Tevinter. He told him about the mischief in the Circles and how even as a child, he refused to let other people tell him what to do and how to behave. He told him about his parents' hopes and dreams for his advancement and the steps they took to secure the most eligible—and to Dorian, repulsive—prospect for marriage so that he would continue to climb through Tevinter's social hierarchy. Warily, and more than a little ashamed of himself, he even went so far as to tell Cullen about wasting too many days drunk and lounging about the many brothels in Minrathous. When that garnered no disgust or outward displays of judgment, he told him about being abducted from the home of a lover and being kept prisoner in his family home in preparation for the blood ritual that would make him give up his preference for men.

It wasn't necessary to follow that up with the trials of fleeing his homeland. Cullen was well aware of those and how that decision ended. Instead, he skipped to his father's arrival at the Gull and Lantern and the details of the conversation he'd only shared with Felix. Cullen let him speak until he'd talked himself hoarse, neither interrupting with his opinions nor questions about what he was hearing. It was only after the whole sordid tale had been told that he rose from the floor, unceremoniously plucked the glass—refilled twice as he'd been talking—from Dorian's hand, and tugged him from the chair.

"Come," he said softly, urging him into motion.

Bemused, Dorian let himself be drawn away from the fire, half a dozen wild ideas filling his mind yet willing to see where the strange request would lead. At first it seemed likely Cullen meant to leave the room entirely, but he slowed to a stop when he neared the bed and tipped his chin toward it. Without another word, he bent to undo the laces that held his boots closed. Dorian watched him for a moment, unmoving and somewhat underwhelmed, as he tried to work out what was going on. He expected some reaction to everything he'd said, of course, but undressing hadn't been among the foreseeable options.

"I'd not expected the details of a family squabble to put you in an amorous mood," Dorian quipped lightly, amused despite himself. He probably shouldn't have been. Chances were high that were it anyone other than Cullen, he would have been insulted. But because it was, all he truly felt was fondness. "Had I know, I'd have spoken of it sooner."

Cullen glanced up at him, midway through pulling his second boot off, and snorted. "I've little need for encouragement there, Dorian."

That was very true. Dorian couldn't have denied it with a straight face if he'd tried. As it generally went when Cullen was being vague and unhelpful, no further explanation followed, leaving him with little choice but stand there like a fool while Cullen stripped or disrobe as well. Choosing the latter, he made short work of his outer layers, pausing only when he arrived at the final one.

Exhibiting all of his usual obliviousness to the cold and his utter lack of modesty, Cullen climbed beneath the blankets stark naked. Dorian waffled at the side of the bed, unable to read the mood accurately. Nothing about Cullen's behavior suggested that he meant to use sex as a means of reassurance and comfort, but it would be far from the first time that a relatively neutral demeanor abruptly gave way to heated desire.

"Dorian," Cullen called, pushing himself up onto his elbow to meet Dorian's eyes from a slightly higher vantage. "Come to bed."

Giving up on the impossible task of trying to figure Cullen out, Dorian did as he was told. Cullen shifted position, sprawling out on his back and lifting his arm out of the way so that he could settle in against him. Never one to reject an opportunity for such close contact—he wouldn't be so disgustingly soppy as to call it  _cuddling_ —with a man who looked as good as his husband always did, Dorian crowded in against his side and laid his head on his chest. That was evidently what he'd been after, for no sooner had he stopped moving than Cullen curled his arm around his shoulders and pressed him just a little closer.

And for a time, that was all that happened. Cullen didn't offer any comments and Dorian for once had nothing else to add. The tips of Cullen's fingers stroked lightly over his shoulder, not so absently as to lead to the assumption that he didn't know he was doing it yet not quite so firmly as to fully draw Dorian's attention to the touch. It was actually rather soothing, in an unobtrusive way, and it was a symptom of Dorian's distraction that it took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that  _this_  had been Cullen's intention all along.

Not to interject his own interpretation of Dorian's history into the mix or to try to offer opinions or advice. Just to be there for him. A solid, loving presence that asked for nothing and gave companionship back.

"You truly aren't angry with me, are you?" Dorian asked, unable to prevent himself from eventually breaking the silence.

Cullen's head was resting so close to his that he could feel the puff of warm air across his forehead when he snorted. "Of course not."

He knew that he should let it alone and just be content with Cullen's unquestioning acceptance. But Dorian couldn't do it. He tried. He kept his mouth shut and ignored the itching of his tongue to unleash the question, but after a few minutes of struggling, it became more detrimental to relaxing than simply voicing it.

"What  _do_  you think of it?" Realizing that that was a bit too broad, he clarified. "Everything, I mean."

It took a moment for Cullen to respond, though Dorian suspected it was simply because he was trying to organize his thoughts. "I cannot claim to understand the ways of your people. They have long been the enemy of mine because we do not understand one another."

_That's putting it mildly_.  _And rather simplistically._ Though, in all fairness, he wasn't wrong. A society as civilized as those in Tevinter believed themselves to be would never be able to comprehend what would possess people to run around half-naked in the winter, to say nothing about living in hovels and dressing so atrociously. And the Avvar, with their incomprehensible disinterest in wealth or prestige and their only occasional glancing interest in personal possessions, would likely be unable to understand why everyone in Tevinter was obsessed with social standing and the unending, viciously contentious competition to have more than one's neighbors and peers. Perhaps they might be able to find a smidgen of common ground with their unconventional approaches to magic, though given the Avvar respect for spirits, Dorian suspected that they would take offense to the pervasive practice of enslaving and using denizens of the Fade.

"There is naught that we would refuse to do for our family—" That sounded like the start of condemnation, and a little too close to the usual diatribe he'd heard from his own family, but it didn't put Dorian on the defensive the way it would have done had it come from someone else and an instant later, his faith was rewarded. "—yet we do not define our family as your people do. The hold is family. The gods that watch over us are family. Those who fight at our side are family. Our personal families are but part of the greater whole."

Dorian's time with the Avvar of Red-Lion Hold had taught him as much, though perhaps not quite in those terms. There were squabbles and disagreements. More than once he'd witnessed a fight break out between members of the clan. But when the dust had settled and bruised feelings were soothed, there had been little bad blood remaining. Even those who had participated in his fateful capture had come to treat him as if he had always been part of the clan. It had been Dorian who had held the grudge. The Avvar had not.

"My parents were not diminished by taking an abandoned lowlander babe as their son. Selkor is not human yet that makes him no less my brother." Cullen shook his head, brushing the top of Dorian's head with his chin. "What difference is there to your parents in taking a son or a daughter into your family? The family still grows. It can grow still further in the future with children. Their anger makes no sense to me."

The Tevinter preoccupation with bloodlines might have been foreign to Cullen, but listening to his explanation of family was just as bizarre to Dorian. Understandable in a way, yes, and something that sounded a bit like the fanciful nonsense he had once dreamed of for himself when he'd been younger, before the realities of his situation had well and truly squashed such imaginings. But impossible. Impractical.

"It's about the bloodlines," he tried to explain, uncertain why it mattered that Cullen understand. Dorian thought it was silly and he'd grown up with it. However, it  _did_ matter. "Breeding. Two people strong in magic have a greater probability of producing equally strong, or stronger, offspring. And the stronger the offspring, the more powerful the family becomes. That power is often all that matters in Tevinter."

"There have been clans who held fast to the same priority as your people. They sought to bend the world to their will. Yet the mountains do not bend to us. The sun does not rise at our command. The gods aid us or not as they decide. Those clans did not prosper. Many have been lost to time."

It was true that Tevinter was no longer the peak of civilization that it once was. Its empire was in decline. Its influence no longer as great. And though Minrathous contained many wonders, signs of age and neglect were everywhere for those willing to acknowledge them. So why in the Maker's name Dorian felt compelled to point out that the Imperium had not been lost to time, he could only attribute to pride.

"And yet Tevinter remains. Unlike your clans."

Cullen evidently did not feel the same pride-fueled protectiveness about those nonexistent clans as Dorian did about his country. "Your people are more numerous than mine. They leave a deeper mark on the land. I would not expect them to disappear the way mine do." Had his tone been sharper, Dorian might have thought it a rebuke. "I know not what answer you would like to hear from me. You are my family. That does not change because the customs of your people are incomprehensible to me."

Opening his mouth to retort that there wasn't anything he  _wanted_  to hear, Dorian found himself reconsidering that stance and slowly shut it. There were no magic words that would set his mind at ease, that much he knew. And the reassurance was more clearly demonstrated in Cullen's actions than anything he might have said. But there was  _something_ , and as he mulled over what that was, Dorian came to the uncomfortable realization that the need he felt was born of guilt. Very specific guilt, tied not to what he had told Cullen, but what he hadn't told his father.

_I haven't had nearly enough wine for this._  The bottle was still sitting by the chair, not impossibly out of reach. But he would need to rise to fetch it and perversely, as much as he wanted it, he knew he didn't deserve it. He was going to have to make it through this without a wine-loosened tongue or the comfortable numbness it provided after it drowned out his doubts.

He had no idea how to go about broaching the subject. Cullen was a wickedly intelligent man when he wasn't playing the fool. He likely knew without needing to be expressly told and Maker, but Dorian wanted to take that convenient rationalization and wriggle out of any further discussion. Knowing full well that to do so was cowardice, unworthy of him and of his feelings for Cullen, he shored up his courage, swallowed, and struck right to the heart of the matter.

"I didn't tell him about you. Or us."

Although he didn't deserve it, Cullen's response was immediate, sparing him the agony of anticipation. "Aye. I gathered as much."

Deciding to chance it, Dorian tipped his head back to look at him. "And you aren't angry with me for it?"  _You don't think me a pathetic coward for my silence?_  Cullen's anger, he could live with. The loss of his respect, however, was a far more difficult burden to bear.

"Would you like me to be?"

Dorian frowned at him, wanting to demand that he take him seriously while simultaneously hoping that his unsavory admission would dissolve into inconsequential teasing. "Obviously not."

Cullen's shrug temporarily jostled his head from where it lay against his shoulder. "One does not mend a broken basket by attempting to repair all the snapped twine at once."

Theoretically, Dorian could parse the meaning behind that unfortunate detour into handicrafts. In practice, however, the assumption Cullen was making about his familiarity with baskets and the creation thereof was an affront to his aristocratic upbringing.

Sniffing, he responded haughtily, "If you truly believe that I've any idea how to  _mend baskets_  or care to learn, I question if you know me at all."

The minor earthquake that followed belied Cullen's silent laughter. "Forgive me," he murmured once the tremors had subsided. "I mistook you for my other husband."

The trouble with loving Cullen as much as he did was that occasionally, a swell of overwhelming affection rose up within him and he had no clue how to deal with it. "The ugly one?" He clicked his tongue. "You  _are_  going blind."

"And you are being foolish." Cullen's hand smoothed down Dorian's back, warm and rough from a lifetime of being a boisterous barbarian. "Every journey begins with a step. Especially those of reconciliation."

_Taking life advice from a man who wears a loincloth on a regular basis. This is what the great Scion of House Pavus has become_. Which, if he was willing to be honest about it, wasn't as terrible as he was tempted to insist. But insist he damn well would. After all, if he abandoned his contrary sarcasm and veneer of vain arrogance, he simply wouldn't recognize himself anymore.  

* * *

Presumably meant to be a secret, the arrival of the Champion of Kirkwall was known by everyone within Skyhold's walls, and likely by everyone down on the valley floor, within an hour of him setting foot in the courtyard. At fault was not a bored guard persuaded to alleviate that ennui through some indiscreet gossip, but rather the volume at which Cassandra shouted at Varric during her attempt to murder him. Dorian, strolling past the tavern on his way to sneak a peek at Cullen conducting drills with the soldiers, happened to hear the uproar and couldn't resist stopping to listen. Others did the same, and in no time at all, eager fans and curious would-be scholars were seeking the Champion out to pester him with questions.

Dorian's introduction to the man, Garrett Hawke, came that afternoon in the accidental presence of Felix and Hawke the younger, who he was going to have to start thinking of as Carver now that someone more impressive bearing the same surname had arrived to take up his mental resources. He was just coming down out of the library when he ran into the pair as they made their way in from the battlements. About to shamelessly butt into their conversation and tease them both over what scandalous things they might have been doing in the commander's office, he was too slow at forming the first comment and instead bore witness to an astonishing exchange.

They were walking close enough to one another that it didn't disturb Haw— _Carver's_ —gait when he leaned toward Felix and murmured, not quite softly enough to keep it from carrying to Dorian, who was evidently still unseen in the doorway, "Try not to fall in love with him when you meet him."

To someone that wasn't as accomplished as Dorian in the fine art of doublespeak, it probably would have sounded like a joke. But to his refined ears, it sounded like a very real concern couched in a gruff warning so ludicrous that Felix couldn't possibly take it seriously and incidentally learn of his idiotic insecurity.

Predictably, Felix didn't. He huffed in amusement. "That's happened before, has it?"

"All the bloody time," Carver muttered, just a tad too darkly. "And he's married now. To the love of his life. No matter how much he flirts, don't forget that."

Felix laughed, his unrestrained hilarity so contagious that Dorian caught the corners of his own lips turning upward, and tipped his head back to favor Carver with a wide grin. Not just any grin, either. Even from where Dorian was standing, he could see open fondness and adoration in it. Carver evidently did too, because his grumbly expression was instantly replaced with something that looked an awful lot like dumbfounded astonishment. Like he'd never been on the receiving end of a look like that before and didn't know how to react to it.

At that point, Dorian wouldn't have been able to compose his gleefully smirking into a mask of bland indifference even if his life had depended on it. Felix had  _feelings_  for the big lout. Actual feelings. Dorian couldn't remember Felix ever having feelings for anyone. There'd been people he'd found attractive over the years, certainly. They'd spent hours gossiping about the appearance of those they knew and strangers they'd glimpsed while out in the city or during a party, rating them in terms of sex appeal and what they'd be interested in doing with the man—or woman, in Felix's case—were the opportunity to present itself. And Dorian knew that Felix had had offers. He might not have been a prestigious mage, but he was a handsome, intelligent man capable of turning more than a few heads. But he'd always been more interested in pursuing his studies or spending time with Dorian than in participating in relationships or dalliances. And once he'd contracted the blight, even the gossip had stopped.

Carver might have been an unimpressive idiot with deeply southern views, but if Felix genuinely cared for him, as it was now undeniably apparent, then Dorian would have to figure out a way to get along with him. He would never be good enough for Felix, no one was, but perhaps he could be grudgingly reclassified as not the worst person for him. Dorian thought he  _might_  be able to live with that.

That possibility seemed more attainable when Carver's gaze slid sideways, like an unmoored boat caught in a river's current, and fetched up against Dorian's unabashed delight. It appeared to startle him so much that he stopped walking, which caused Felix to look down the hallway too.

"Dorian!" Leaving Carver floundering in the morass of having had two sources of positive regard aimed his way, Felix picked up his pace to reach him as, now that he'd been discovered, he finally stepped out of the doorway. "How are—" He paused, clearly taking in Dorian's expression. "What?"

Subtlety was for people who hadn't just realized their best friend was in love. "When's the wedding?" Dorian asked cheerfully, not bothering to lower his voice.

Still stalled out somewhere beyond Felix's shoulder, Carver started to splutter. Dorian watched him for a second, smiling so broadly that his face began to hurt, before looking expectantly at Felix. "Well?" he prompted, as Felix rolled his eyes with exasperated affection. "I need to clear my calendar."

"You aren't invited," Felix retorted, giving him a light shove to get him moving toward the main hall.

Dorian gasped in exaggerated shock, though he didn't resist Felix's prodding and picked up the pace himself. "I beg your pardon?"

Felix hummed low in his throat, like he was giving the matter serious thought. "I seem to recall not receiving an invitation to  _your_  wedding."

"Oh, please." Dorian waved that away with a dismissive flap of his hand. "If it had been possible for you to be present for that, you would have been. I would have worked the magic myself to bring you down there."  _Without hesitation_ , he didn't say, knowing it would be understood. "If you'd like, we can have another one here."

It might have been a little silly to have a wedding a second time, but he doubted that Cullen would object to it, especially after he explained why he wished to go through it all again. The idea didn't have time to gain traction, however. Felix was already shaking his head.

"You can't recreate that sort of drama. I'm going to have to live with missing it."

"There's always your own wedding..." Dorian suggested nonchalantly.

"There's no bloody wedding," Carver chimed in behind him, obviously trying to sound surly and disgruntled about the whole thing. Something about his tone rang false to Dorian's ears and Felix, who ought to have been offended by his paramour's protests, just slid his arm through Carver's and laughed.

"So who's the dashing hero you're worried will woo Felix away from you?" Dorian didn't just obligingly drop the subject of marriage, he spoke to Carver directly. He deserved a commendation for his civility.

"I'm  _not_  worried about—"

"His brother," Felix interrupted. "We're going to have lunch with Garrett. Would you like to join us?"

From the corner of his eye, Dorian caught Carver giving him a significant look. Whether he was trying to discourage him from accepting the invitation or urging him to do so was likely easy to determine, but there was a limit to his benevolence. Pretending as if he didn't notice the frantic attempt to communicate with him behind Felix's back, Dorian nodded. "And miss getting to meet the famed Champion of Kirkwall? Banish the thought."

Between Varric's stories, some of the things he'd heard the soldiers say about Kirkwall and the apostate who started the war, and Carver's comments to Felix, Dorian didn't know quite what to expect of Garrett Hawke. Someone larger than life, perhaps, whose openly flirtatious demeanor might provide a worthy opponent for Dorian's own. And impossibly handsome. That seemed to be a common thread in all of the tales he'd heard.

The real Garrett Hawke, as it turned out, was astonishingly normal. Not quite ordinary. He was a striking man, even though he wasn't as tall or muscular as Carver and had a beard that was in desperate need of a trim, and a powerful mage. Dorian could practically feel the power in him as they shook hands and he knew it was going to be a trial not to monopolize the entire lunch with questions about the sort of magic he preferred. He was charismatic, though he was not nearly as flirtatious as Carver had claimed, and quick with a dryly sarcastic quip. Yet what struck Dorian the keenest was how tired he seemed.

It wasn't anything overt. He certainly wasn't yawning the entire time or falling asleep at the table. But there was something about his eyes that caught Dorian's attention, a bone-deep weariness that made his gaze older than it ought to have been. It was the look of a man who'd been carrying the weight of the world on his back for so long that he probably didn't know how to put it down.  _If Varric's to be believed, he was there at the start of the war. His friend used him, lied to him, and killed hundreds of innocent people. And he unwittingly released Corypheus from his prison. Just one of those things is enough to age a man beyond his years. But to have been involved in both events..._

Dorian doubted that he would have been able to hold himself together as well as Hawke had if their circumstances had been switched. He probably would have drank himself into a stupor years ago. But here was Hawke, dogging Corypheus' footsteps, following him across the world in a second attempt to stop him.

It was impossible not to be impressed by him. Even more so because there was no arrogance in him. He might have been the most influential person in all of Thedas, yet he never spoke as if his opinion carried more weight than anyone else's or demanded special treatment. If anything, he downplayed the title he bore whenever it was brought up.

As they were leaving the tavern, Hawke turned to his brother and casually asked, "So, when's the wedding?"

"I—" Scowling furiously, Carver shook his head. "There's no wedding! What's wrong with you people?"

Ignoring him, Hawke glanced at Dorian. "Let me know when they set a date, all right? Fenris will never let me hear the end of it if we miss it."

Dorian did nothing to hide his grin. "Are you quite certain you don't want this brother instead?" He teased Felix, delighted to hear Hawke's low chuckle at the question. "I think I like this one better."

"I hate you," he heard Carver mutter darkly.

"I'm sure," Felix said lightly. "Sorry Garrett." As Hawke tipped his head sideways and accepted his apology with a shrug, he continued. "Besides, I'd rather not give Fenris another reason to hate our people."

* * *

Now that he'd gotten to speak with Hawke and discovered that he actually liked the man, Dorian hoped that he planned to stick around Skyhold after he finished speaking with the Inquisitor about whatever he'd come to tell him. He wanted to have a private conversation with him, one in which they could talk about magic without interruption until they were either tired of the subject or both hoarse. But of course, he wasn't staying. He'd come to pass on information about Corypheus, and somehow, that had shifted into accompanying the Inquisitor on a journey to a cave in the middle of Crestwood to meet with some Grey Warden.

As luck would have it, Dorian was invited along, though Hawke split from the group to go on ahead and speak with the man, leaving him little time to engage him in a conversation about magic. The Grey Warden turned about to be a man called Alistair, who evidently was quite famous himself for his role in ending the Fifth Blight. After speaking with him, it became obvious why he and Hawke were friends: they both had the same dry, somewhat morbid sense of humor.

Dorian got to have the talk he wanted on their way back to Skyhold. He and Hawke traded stories of their lives growing up with magic, along with a few embarrassing tales neither Carver nor Felix would have appreciated being told, and advice on a variety of spells. Hawke wasn't a necromancer and Dorian wasn't terribly proficient in some of the more exotic force spells, but they found common ground in elemental magic. Mahanon and Solas were eventually drawn into the discussion, leaving Varric and Alistair to amuse themselves for the remainder of that night.

Almost as soon as they returned to Skyhold, Mahanon, Alistair, and Hawke disappeared behind the closed doors of many meetings with the Inquisitor's advisors. With no note-takers or guards in attendance, it was impossible to hear rumors of what was being discussed ahead of any actual decisions. Dorian knew it pertained to what Alistair had said about Corypheus' involvement with the Grey Wardens, but it wasn't until plans were finalized that he found out what the Inquisition was going to do about it.

Learning that he was about to make the long, tedious trek to the Western Approach was not the demoralizing news the runner evidently thought it was going to be when he’d apologetically delivered the message. Not that Dorian wished to spend an excess time on the road, but the western part of Orlais was said to be quite warm. Perhaps not the balmy warmth of Tevinter, though after the months of miserable cold in the Frostbacks, Dorian was happy to take what he could get. Cullen insisted on joining the party, in part because he'd never been that far west and wanted to see more of the land, and no amount of trying to make him understand that it was going to be significantly warmer than anything he'd ever experienced before would make him change his mind.

They set out shortly after the news came down, leaving Felix and Selkor, who'd insisted on remaining behind, in the courtyard to see them off. Travel was as tedious as Dorian had anticipated, but the gradually warming temperatures did nothing to dampen Cullen's enthusiasm for scouting ahead with Falkyr. Even when grasslands gave way to dry, dusty desert, Cullen appeared unaffected. It was both a minor disappointment—Dorian had been looking forward to seeing him uncomfortable with the weather for once in his life—and bizarrely impressive, though instead of doling out credit, Dorian simply assumed that Cullen's tolerance stemmed from the fact that he wasn't wearing anything but the loincloth and boots.

_I'd be hard-pressed to swelter too,_  he thought one afternoon, watching Cullen scale a rocky bluff as effortlessly as if he'd been doing it all his life, seemingly oblivious to the sun beating down over his bare back. _If I spent the whole time running around in nothing._

It felt like they spent an age dragging around the desert, trying to locate the Grey Wardens. The heat, initially welcome after so much deep mountain cold, began to wear on Dorian. Sand had the most unfortunate habit of getting into everything, no matter how vigilant he was at trying to keep it out of his clothes, and before too long he was fed up with it. They uncovered a number of Tevinter ruins, which kept Dorian's complaints from coming so frequently that they became intolerable to everyone around him, and more than one dragon.

Finally, in the ruins of a crumbling Tevinter temple, they found their quarry. They also found Grey Wardens engaged in blood magic at the behest of a particularly slimy Venatori magister named Erimond. A battle ensued, yet despite their best efforts to apprehend him, Erimond escaped in the chaos. Fortunately, there was only one place he could have gone.

Unfortunately, that place happened to be Adamant Fortress, which, depending on what version of the story one heard, was varying degrees of impenetrable.

Mahanon wasn't about to let a tricky little five syllable word defeat him or the legacy of the Grey Wardens. Neither was Carver, who was stubborn enough to agree that he could get through the fortress' walls if he had enough equipment and personnel. Alistair, horrified about what had become of his people, joined his voice to the calls to stop Erimond. And Dorian, disgusted at the lengths to which his depraved countrymen were willing to go, demanded to be part of the attack.

Before long, they had an entire army amassed to march on Adamant. And march they did.

Dorian had never been part of a true military assault before, and after the nightmare that followed, he didn't think he ever wanted to be again. Arrayed against them were demons and Venatori, neither of which he had qualms about killing, and Grey Wardens corrupted by blood magic and twisted into an enemy that they truly were not. Killing them was difficult and every time one of those noble warriors fell to Dorian's magic, he murmured an apology to the dead. Alistair accompanied them as they breached the walls and Hawke, initially part of the force that took control of the battlements, eventually joined them, their shouts and the occasional flash of lightning giving away their positions in the dark. Cullen kept near Dorian’s side whenever possible, his sword dripping with green light and spiting sparks of it into the air whenever it met the flesh of a demon.

After a chaotic battle glimpsed through shadows and the flickering, inconsistent light of fires—some deliberately lit and contained by torches, others accidentally started from the spells and catapults that were sending it careening through the air—they reached the courtyard where Clarel and Erimond were sacrificing Wardens in an effort to drag a demon into the world. Mahanon stepped forward to try to reason with her, and for a few minutes, it looked like he was breaking through whatever spell Erimond had placed on her and all would not be  _well_ , per se, but the bloodshed at least would cease. It probably helped that Alistair was with him; judging from the reactions the other Wardens had to him, his reputation was still strong enough to make an impression on them. But whatever headway the Inquisitor was making slipped through his fingers when Erimond called out Corypheus' Maker-be-damned dragon.

However, it certainly helped proved the truth of Mahanon's insistence that the Wardens were being used. Dorian supposed that they had that minor convenience for which to be thankful. Though the massive  _in_ convenience of Erimond trying to escape in the midst of a blighted dragon wreaking havoc on the fortress and the Inquisition's forces rather ruined it.

Of course, all of that paled into nothing when, after a battle of magic and the weight of the dragon, the battlements shattered under their feet and pitched Thedas' best hope of stopping the end of the world into the Abyssal Rift.

* * *

"This isn't what I was expecting," Alistair murmured, head thrown back as he surveyed the strange, pulsating swirl of green above them.

Dorian was standing nearby and, hearing his comment, hummed a note of agreement. What he'd been expecting, as he'd plummeted through the air, was a long,  _long_  fall that, if he wasn't hit by falling debris, would end with a sickening splat. Survival hadn't been even the wisp of a hope in his mind. But somehow, survive is precisely what they'd done. For the moment, anyway.

Frowning, not wanting to think too long about the awful ways they might all still die, he finished straightening his clothes, unacceptably rumpled in the fall, and brushed at a spot of odd, viscous muck that had gotten onto his tunic during his unfortunately graceless landing. Next to him, Cullen was eyeing something far off in the distance, unharmed and seemingly more at ease than everyone else about their change of scenery. His sword looked to be more upset than he was, its blade gleaming green despite being secured at his side.

"It's the Fade," Solas replied, obviously sensing that what they needed most at that particular moment was an obnoxious know-it-all.

Hawke must have disagreed with him. "It didn't look like this the last time I was here."

Unable to resist contributing to casting aspersions on Solas' expertise, Dorian chimed in. "Rather lacking in the castles and the fresh produce, isn't it?"

"You got produce?" Hawke's eyebrows rose. "That hardly seems fair. All I got was attacked by my friends."

"There were extenuating circumstances there and you know it," Varric chimed in quickly, lifting his forefinger to forestall further besmirchment.

It was actually quite entertaining to watch Varric and Hawke interact. They reminded Dorian of one of those elderly married couples that featured so prominently in fiction of a romantic bent. The sort that spent the majority of their time bickering, though not so sharply that it was impossible to recognize the deep, almost unconditional love that existed between them and kept them together in spite of time, circumstance, and the barbs they hurled at one another. He'd never imagined such a couple might exist outside of books and bards' tales, not until Hawke had come to Skyhold and disabused him of that disbelief.

"All right," Mahanon interrupted, stepping forward as Hawke opened his mouth to deliver a quip Dorian thought he really would have enjoyed hearing. "Let's figure out how to get out of here before Hawke's history repeats itself." He nodded toward the swirling vortex high above them that uncannily resembled the Breach. "That seems like a good place to start."

In theory, using the dangerous looking hole in the nauseatingly eerie sky to escape the Fade seemed like a reasonable enough plan, given the circumstances. But in practice...

"I hate to be the harbinger of disappointment," Dorian found himself saying, effectively assuming the role he would have preferred avoiding. "But none of us can fly and the current condition of the Fade suggests that it isn't going to be especially accommodating to our needs."

Something brushed against his elbow, the touch entirely too firm to be accidental. Startled by it, good breeding was the only thing that prevented him from embarrassing himself in front of his companions. And thank the Maker for that, as a nonchalant glance down revealed the unexpected contact to be stemming from Cullen's hand.

"We stand in the Land of Dreams," he said softly, apparently unaware of the fright he'd nearly given Dorian. "Nothing is impossible when one walks with the gods."

_Don't snap at him. It isn't his fault._ He managed to follow his own advice, though it was a near thing. "In case you haven't noticed, we're rather short on gods at present."

"Maybe we'll find some," Mahanon ventured, gesturing for everyone to follow him seconds before he squared his shoulders and started off in the direction vortex. "Come on."

_Typical Mahanon_ , Dorian thought, not unkindly, as he switched his staff to his dominant hand and trudged after him.  _No idea what to do, so he's just going to do something random and will it to work out._ The truly impressive thing was that more often than not, it actually worked. Not perfectly. Never quite as easily or as neatly. But the Inquisitor had luck that would make even the most amateur of gamblers jealous.  _Maybe he really is blessed by the Maker and Andraste._

"What about the rift the Wardens opened?" Alistair suggested. "We can't have fallen  _that_  far. It's got to be close by."

"There! You see?" Mahanon gave Dorian a smile. It was somewhat more subdued than usual, but the sentiment behind it wasn't fake. "No flying necessary."

Relief was too strong a term for the slight lessening of the tension that Dorian was feeling about being physically in the Fade and he didn't have a suitable substitute in mind.  _Heartening_  seemed a little too optimistic too. Still, having a more attainable goal was better than the alternative. It suggested that they  _might_  not die in the Fade after all.

It should have been a fascinating, perhaps even thrilling experience. Dorian had often visited the Fade in dreams; to do the assumed impossible and visit it in the flesh was a remarkable opportunity he knew that he should have been eagerly seizing. But it wasn't the Fade of his recollection. This version was  _wrong_  in ways that he couldn't entirely put into words. It felt sick, almost diseased, and that sense of corruption seeped like poison into his magic and permeated his very core. Instead of wanting to examine and explore every facet of it, all he wanted to do was get out of it.

A glance at the others revealed similar signs of strain and unease. Varric held tight to his crossbow and kept darting wary glances to either side of the path down which they walked. Alistair's hand was resting on the pommel of his sword. Hawke's posture was straight and stiff, his gait a little too controlled to be a leisurely stroll. Mahanon wasn't freely conversing with Solas the way he normally would have been, had they been on a simple jaunt across unfamiliar terrain, and there was a tight pensiveness to Solas' face that Dorian had never seen there before. The only exception was Cullen. He wasn't ranging ahead of them or scaling the twisted rock formations like their sole existence was to give him something athletic to do, but he wasn't gripping his sword and his expression betrayed only alertness.

As they turned a corner, Dorian let his momentum take him closer to him. "What do you make of this?"

Cullen's gaze swept sideways until his eyes met Dorian's. "It is not what I imagined from the tales the augurs have told." His attention returned to the glistening rock ahead. "It does not seem worthy to be of the homeland of the gods."

_So you recognize it too._ "It's nothing like anything I've seen in my dreams either."

They walked a few feet in silence before Cullen spoke again. "If I came upon this land in the mountains, I would think it diseased. Tainted, perhaps, by the Blight. Yet the gods do not share our vulnerabilities, so how can their land share that of ours?"

_Because they aren't gods_ , Dorian wanted to tell him.  _Because they're spirits. Powerful spirits, but spirits nonetheless. And being powerful isn't the same as being a god._  He held his tongue, however, not believing it would do much good to say such things. They'd spoken about their gods before and the conversations, while enlightening, were often frustrating too. Belief did not a religious scholar make; Dorian often struggled to answer questions Cullen had about the Old Gods and the Maker and Cullen was strangely resistant to even the possibility that the barbarian gods were nothing more than ordinary spirits.

"Well, perhaps—" A flicker of movement caught Dorian's eye, distracting him from what he'd been about to say. He tracked it warily, suspecting he wouldn't like what he would see and knowing that there was no help for it. And he was right: drifting into view was a glowing form that didn't appear particularly friendly. "Ah, there you go. You can ask one of them."

Cullen followed his gaze. "No," he said softly, drawing his sword. "That is not a god."

More of the wraiths came into view, though their numbers were not remotely sufficient to overwhelm the party. It was over almost as soon as it began. Cullen took out two of them himself, so vicious in his dispatching of the creatures that Dorian was slightly taken aback. Something of it must have still been showing on his face when the battle was over, for when Cullen rejoined him, he took one look at him and lifted an eyebrow.

"What troubles you?"

"Hm?" Dorian shook his head. "No, not troubled. Just, ah, surprised by your  _enthusiasm_  during the fight."

"One does not overcome illness by allowing it to race unchecked through the body," Cullen replied, shrugging as if he was repeating knowledge so common even children knew it. Which was a surprisingly civilized grasp of the healing arts from a man who preferred to insulate himself from the cold with mud instead of layers of clothes. "I can do no less than what the gods require of me."

Sometimes, Dorian had no idea what went on in Cullen's head. "Which is—" The following word died on his tongue.

Around him, his companions fell silent as they too, one by one, saw the figure standing in front of them.  _Not my imagination, then._  Dressed in ornate robes and wearing one of the most ridiculously ugly hats Dorian had ever seen was Divine Justinia. And from the look of things, she was waiting for them.

Dorian was awash with questions, but Mahanon was both the Inquisitor and the Herald of Andraste. If anyone was to question the Chantry's erstwhile leader, it was the Maker's chosen one. Courageously pressing his lips together, he glanced at Cullen in the hopes that he could distract himself from the temptation to open them. For the moment, it worked. Cullen was looking at her intently, not with recognition—for how would one of the Avvar recognize the Chantry's Divine?—but with intense interest and curiosity. He would have liked to inquire after his thoughts, but then she started speaking and his attention snapped back to her.

During the course of the conversation, she confirmed the suspicion that all the mages were harboring about the Fade. This wasn't it in its normal form. This was the domain of Corypheus' demon, shaped by the Nightmare to something hideous and frightening. A little more of the tension twisting Dorian's muscles into knots relaxed. It wasn't  _good_  news by any stretch of the imagination, but the explanation made it easier to deal with simply because there was a comprehensible reason. However, there was not an explanation for the Divine, about whom no one could agree.

Was she a spirit imitating Justinia? Was she Justinia? Her answers to those questions were so vague and unhelpful that she might as well have not answered them at all. Hawke didn't believe it. Alistair seemed conflicted. Varric wasn't treating the debate with the same gravity that the others were, claiming that it would make a damned good story either way. Solas didn't offer an opinion and Cullen merely met Dorian's questioning look with a serene one of his own. Mahanon seemed the most willing to believe her, if only because she was helping him regain his memories of what had happened at the Conclave.

Dorian wanted to talk to his friend about it, but with the Divine's dire warning to hurry before the Nightmare found them, there wasn't any time to do so. They hurried along the path, weapons now in hand and ready for use. Tension coiled tight through Dorian's body, what minor respite he'd had from it earlier now a distant memory. It only got worse a few minutes later, when the towering pillars of rock gave way to a large, open area with disturbingly little cover. With the nape of his neck prickling, Dorian followed Mahanon out into it.

And froze for an instant as a distorted, disembodied voice called out to them.

It was eerily familiar, bringing to mind the sounds Dorian had heard in Haven when they'd closed the Breach, and it taunted Mahanon with the horrible promise of what his lost memories contained. To his credit, the Inquisitor didn't appear unduly alarmed by the welcome into the Nightmare's lair and continued on as if the creature wasn't speaking to him. Everyone else, with the occasional sideways glance, trailed after him.

"You've got to be kidding me," Hawke hissed, moments later, as they came face to face with about half a dozen versions of Dorian's worst nightmare. As Dorian jerked back half a step in disbelieving horror, Hawke continued in disgust, "It's always spiders."

_What?_  It was so apropos to nothing that it pulled Dorian's attention away from what he was seeing. He glanced at Hawke, expecting see a swarm of the aforementioned spiders descending on him, but all he saw was the Champion launching a bolt of lightning into the crowd of menacing horrors ahead.

"Tell me about it," Mahanon grumbled, his magical blade forming in one of his hands even as he called a crackling ball of lightning to the other.

_What bloody spiders?_ It was perplexing enough that for the moment, instead of fear, all he felt was irritation that he was missing out on something everyone else was experiencing. Knowing it was foolish to seek sense with a man who often seemed determined to be as nonsensical as possible, Dorian looked at Cullen.

"Do you see spiders anywhere?" he whispered, making sure to keep his voice low so that the others couldn't hear him admit to not knowing what in the Void was going on. It was probably a wasted effort. They were making so much noise killing the monstrosities that he barely heard himself over the racket.

Cullen shook his head. "No."

Stupidly, Dorian waited for a few seconds, listening for the elaboration that never came.  _Oh, for Andraste's sake._  "Cullen—"

"More will be coming," Cullen interrupted, sparing no further attention to the obvious question he was blithely ignoring. Briefly, he squeezed Dorian's arm. "Their lies serve the false god. Believe not what they show you. Know instead what they are."

If he was looking for an optimistic light in which to view their present predicament—he was most emphatically not, having parted ways with optimism's treachery  _years_  ago—Cullen's infuriatingly unhelpful Avvar mumbo-jumbo left him too irritated to be unnerved by the shapes the creatures were taking. It wasn't just that he was speaking in idiotic riddles, which was only attractive when Dorian was the one doing it, but that a man who wasn't a mage evidently had no trouble grasping concepts that mages far more educated in the magical arts than he was often bungled to fatal, and usually demon-possessed, consequences. Inappropriate though the timing was, Dorian wanted to ask him how he knew enough about the Fade to know that.

Purely for theoretical reasons. It had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with Cullen's easy acceptance and casual dismissal of whatever Maker-forsaken thing he was seeing while Dorian struggled to keep his disquiet hidden from his comrades.

The way to what they all hoped was freedom grew substantially more dangerous as they got closer to the suspected location of the rift. It was no longer just wraiths barring their path. Demons were coming out of the woodwork, crawling out of statues and rising up from distorted shadows. Wrath and terror roamed this part of Nightmare's realm in abundance, and as their journey progressed, they encountered despair and pride as well.

Encountering the Divine a second time offered them a momentary respite from battle, though the fortuitous meeting was not as positively illuminating as it might have been. It had been she, not Andraste, that had aided Mahanon's first flight through the Fade. Dorian stole a quick peek at his face during the unfortunate revelation and just for a few seconds, he thought he glimpsed disappointment there. Solas, the insufferably arrogant arse, appeared neither surprised nor saddened by the news.

_How the two of them manage to get along so well, I'll never know_ , Dorian thought, conveniently ignoring how odd a match a Tevinter mage and an Avvar former thane no doubt was to everyone else. Solas' contempt for all things Dalish and the Chantry suggested that he'd have no patience for everything that made Mahanon who he was or his open-mindedness about the Maker. But Solas' sharp tongue was unusually silent around the Inquisitor more than it wasn't, and although Dorian could tell—insofar as anyone could tell anything about Solas—that he wasn't the least bit distraught to discover that Mahanon was a perfectly ordinary mortal rather than a mystical chosen one, he wasn't gloating about it or mocking them all for having believed it.

It was a good thing, too, or else Dorian, in the interest of being a true and worthy friend to Mahanon, would have had to sink to barbarian levels and punch him in his unpleasantly pointy face

Hawke and Alistair chose that moment to have a thoroughly unproductive argument over whose fault it was that the world had fallen into such a sorry state. Hawke's anger had been brewing since they'd first discovered what Erimond was doing, but once they'd seen the full extent of it in Adamant, it was as if he'd taken the whole tragedy personally, and Alistair, as the only sane Grey Warden in the vicinity, bore the brunt of it. Listening to them snap at each other drew Mahanon out of whatever dark thoughts he was entertaining and forced him to intervene.

In perhaps its only moment of usefulness, the Nightmare let them know it had found them and that, more than Mahanon calling them both useless idiots, galvanized them into action.

The Divine, or the spirit that was pretending to be her now that it was revealed that she was dead, accompanied them this time, floating ahead of them like a bright golden beacon for everything that wanted to kill or devour them to find. Dorian was half-tempted to make a sarcastic comment, but seeing as the Nightmare already knew where they were, it hardly seemed worth the breath. Better just to save it and run.

No one spoke. The quiet banter they'd all been exchanging to keep the nervousness at bay during their trek through the Fade was exchanged for silent concentration. Most of that last desperate race to the rift was a blur to Dorian, but what he would always remember afterward was the flickering flash of Cullen's sword, here and there in bright bursts of light as he darted from one demon to the other, guarding their flanks and clearing out the way ahead. The entire experience had to have been wholly out of his ken, yet he never flagged, never hesitated.

What it might have been like had he not been there, Dorian could not imagine. Quite possibly, none of them would have made it out.

Because the Nightmare was waiting for them, its great, hulking misshapen body between them and the rift. Their odd guardian spirit left them then, and whatever it did, it drove the Nightmare away. A demon waited in its place, equally monstrous yet not nearly as big. It called its lesser fellows to its side, but the shifting haze of the rift shimmered just beyond it, close enough that Dorian could practically taste the fresh air from the real world. Likely the others could as well, because they fought with renewed vigor and one by one, the demons fell.

"Go!" Mahanon shouted as the largest, and the last, slumped to the rocky ground, its charred corpse oozing some sort of black, oily substance.

Dorian didn't need to be told twice. Stowing his staff to free up his hands, he made a run for the rift, still twisting tantalizingly a short distance away. It hung suspended in the air at the top of a small rise and by the light that radiated out from it, he could see nothing lurking nearby.  _We're actually going to make it!_

He could see Solas in his peripheral vision, keeping pace with him, and from the sound of heavy footfalls echoing off the stone to his right, he knew that Varric was there as well. Rather miraculous, that, given how short the dwarf's legs were. Dorian made a mental note to tease him about it, the next time he claimed his taller companions were moving too quickly for him to keep up. It wasn't necessary that he look to check on Cullen. Dorian knew without needing the visual confirmation that he would be at the rear, guarding them as much as making sure that no one fell behind.

"Almost there," Varric announced breathlessly, as they neared the rift. "Just a little—"

A crashing boom reverberated across the stony landscape, sending tremors through the ground so powerful that Dorian almost lost his footing. The rift was  _right there_  in front of him. Two steps and he'd be through it, out of the Fade and back to the dubious safety of the Wardens' fortress. Every fiber in his body screamed at him to  _go, go through!_  But eschewing common sense and his healthy instinct for self-preservation, he spun around.

The bloated, terrible body of the Nightmare stood between the rift and the rest of the party. Were it not for the incline upon which he stood, the creature's giant form would have completely obscured the others from Dorian's sight. They were skidding to a stop, Mahanon at the front of the group and Cullen, as expected, a short distance from Hawke. Mahanon's face was pale and wide-eyed with frantic horror. Even from where he stood, Dorian could see his gaze darting back and forth, trying to find a way around the thing. In contrast, Hawke's was hard and coldly focused, like he had reached the end of his patience and was seconds from an explosion of fury. Dorian couldn't tell if Alistair was worried or tired or both; as disgusted as he looked, there was something resigned about his countenance.

As he watched, Cullen's eyes found his across the distance and for a second that seemed to last forever, they stared at one another. Dorian saw his chin tip up, recognized it as Cullen telling him to go through the rift, and said softly, "No."  _Not without you._

"Go!" he heard Hawke say, gesturing toward the rift. "I'll cover you."

Alistair shook his head. "No. The Wardens made this mess. It's up to me to clean it up."

_Oh for Andraste's sake. You're really going to argue_ now _? Fucking run!_  But they weren't running. They were standing there, debating who was going to to stay and make the noble fucking sacrifice, while the Nightmare ominously clacked its chelicerae together and shifted its weight on its spiny legs.  _Looming,_ Dorian realized.  _Heightening our fear so that it grows even stronger._

Yet even knowing that that was what it was doing wasn't sufficient to quash the rising terror inside him. Mahanon was going to have to make the call. One of their comrades was going to have to stay as a Maker-damned diversion so that the rest of them could flee. It looked like it was going to be Hawke. Mahanon's head was tipping in his direction, and like he was suddenly gifted with prescience, Dorian could hear him tell him to do it. He was going to watch a man who might have grown to be a cherished friend die in front of his eyes.

Flames started to rise from Dorian's clenched fist as his magic responded to his frustrated horror.  _If it's a distraction you need..._  The Nightmare wasn't paying any attention to him. Its back was to the rift, either because it didn't realize that Dorian hadn't gone through or because it didn't view one man a threat.  _The Magisterium doesn't think me a threat either and I'm going to teach them the error of such thinking. I may as well start with you._

A flare of green light that grew so bright that it quickly became incandescently white momentarily blinded him, disrupting the gathering of his magic. The fire guttered as Dorian blinked to clear his eyes, and in the swirl of black-spotted afterimages, he saw movement. Cullen, stalking forward with all the predatory grace of the lions for which his hold had been named, the sword in his hand glowing so fiercely that it was almost impossible to look at directly.

_No._  His throat wouldn't work. His mouth wouldn't obey his command to open. His feet held him rooted to the spot, silent and stationary, as Cullen pushed through the group and continued forward, eyes locked on the monstrous thing barring their path.  _Don't you dare!_

Then he was running, little more than a streak of green light, before he hurled himself at the Nightmare. It shrieked as the sword bit deep into its leg and stumbled back. The paralysis gripping Dorian broke. Convulsively, he lunged a step forward. " _Cullen!_ "

If he heard him, Cullen gave no indication. He yanked his sword free of the Nightmare's leg and dodged around another one that came down at him like a spear. His momentum took him under its body, where he wasted no time in driving the sword up into its abdomen. A boulder crashed into it an instant later, the whole thing covered in a crackling coating of lightning, knocking it off-balance.

"Can't very well let you have all the fun, can I?" Hawke called as he joined the fight. He spun his staff in an arc that sent another bolt of lightning into the Nightmare even as the blade at the end cut into one of its legs. "I've got a reputation to uphold!"

"Less talking, more killing!" came Alistair's voice from nearby.

As the Nightmare turned to face Hawke, growling in a way no real spider ever would, Dorian saw Alistair take a flying leap at the thing from atop a rock. He didn't manage to get on top of it, though he used his sword to slow his descent by scoring a long, ichor-filled line down through one of its legs. The Inquisitor was moving too, spectral blade in hand. Not toward the rift, but toward the Nightmare, and Dorian, unable to stand there on the sidelines for a moment longer, eyed the area underneath the creature and, as soon as Hawke got out of the way, pulled a massive wall of fire up from the ground. Then he was running too, away from the rift and down the incline to join his friends.

Had an army of demons descended upon them in aid of the Nightmare, the battle might have gone considerably different. Five against an unholy terror and an endless wave of its allies would not have been able to hold. But the lesser demons didn't come. Perhaps the Nightmare was too preoccupied to call them or, more likely, the amount of power being unleashed into the Fade suggested that anything with a lick of sense ought to stay away. Because despite the dire warnings of the Divine and the threatening promises of the Nightmare, they were winning.

The monster was bleeding from dozens of wounds. One of its legs had been severed and it hadn't been able to grow it back. Its carapace was blackened in some places, and in others, cracked completely through. And the longer they fought, the less afraid Dorian became. The suffocating fear that the creature generated was lessening, and the lighter the oppressive air became, the harder they fought. Though none, perhaps, fought as hard as Cullen.

He was everywhere, easily tracked by the still gleaming sword, and he was relentless. He spared no attention to the spells that were flying around him. A casual wave of his sword cut through Dorian's fire when it got too close or dissipated a burst of Hawke's lightning before it scorched him. There wasn't often an opportunity to actually watch him—the longer the battle wore on, the more frantic the Nightmare became, lashing out with its claws and assaulting their minds with terror—but in the glimpses that Dorian managed to catch, he was reminded, obnoxiously, of the  _dancing_  Cullen was always talking about.

It  _did_  look like a dance, intricate and graceful and deadlier than even the most shocking party that was ever hosted in Minrathous, and Cullen never missed a step. He slid under flailing limbs, only to regain his footing before his momentum dwindled. He dodged around his companions without missing a beat. And when he did the stupidest thing Dorian had ever seen and  _ran up the Nightmare's leg_ , he leaped nimbly across its back as it heaved, spun, and tried to roll him off without offering an opening to its other attackers. He didn't fall. He didn't even stumble.

The sword flared again, forcing Dorian to close his eyes and jerk his head away. He opened them an instant later, too well trained to voluntarily blind himself in the midst of battle, as the Nightmare screamed. There was Cullen, feet braced against its head, with his sword driven down through its eyes into its brain. It gave another deafening shriek as it jerked backward, curling in on itself.

And then, impossibly, it fell.

"Is it—" Alistair edged closer, sword tight in his hand, and kicked one of the Nightmare's limp, ichor-coated legs. "Is it actually dead?"

Lightning flickered in Hawke's eyes. "Shall I give it another jolt?"

Cullen came around the side of the thing, shaking its blood from his now dark and unconvincingly normal looking sword. "Aye, it's dead."

His hair was disheveled and his loincloth was askew, though not quite indecently so, and he was streaked with gunk so black and slimy that it made his precious mud look clean, but in that moment, he was still the most handsome man Dorian had ever seen.

"Couldn't hurt, could it?" Mahanon chimed in as he let his sword fade into nothing.

Ignoring them and the sudden thunderous boom as a bolt came down into the NIghtmare's corpse, Dorian moved toward Cullen. He saw him coming and grinned that wild, irrepressible smile that Dorian both loved and occasionally hated. Seeing it now, Dorian felt only love. Right up until Cullen opened his mouth.

"That was a fine dance indeed!" Reaching out, he clasped Dorian's forearm in such a firm grip that he had alarming visions of being hauled in against Cullen's filthy chest.

"You nearly got yourself killed, you fool!" Dorian hissed, jerking his arm back before Cullen could ruin his clothes. He hadn't a suitable change for the trek back to Skyhold and he would be damned if he wore anything that got smeared with the Nightmare's blood.

Unabashed, Cullen let him go and waved expansively toward the group. "With such fine allies by my side? Never."

Dorian knew that it wasn't the place to argue with him, though the impulse to do so anyway was incredibly strong. Powerful mages fell to lesser demons all the time and they weren't ever  _physically_  in the Fade when it happened. To take on a demon as strong and powerful as the Nightmare  _alone_  and with nothing but a magical sword absolutely could have gotten him killed. But Cullen didn't even seem to consider that a possibility. It was that careless lack of consideration that grated on Dorian's nerves and made him want to throttle him.

"Varric's going to be damn disappointed he missed that fight," Hawke was saying as they began to move toward the rift.

Falling in beside him, Dorian rolled his eyes. "But you'll tell him all about it and then we'll have to listen to him recount it over and over with such exaggeration that it won't even remotely resemble what actually happened."

Laughing, Hawke clapped him on the shoulder. "Now you know I've felt all these years."

Although he smiled at them, there was wariness in Mahanon's voice when he said, "Let's just hope he's alive and the fortress isn't in the middle of burning down."

It wouldn't have been terribly shocking had Mahanon's pessimistic prediction been true, but as they exited the rift, it came as a pleasant surprise to see that things were mostly calm and well in hand. There were a few demons still lingering on the battlements, though those were quickly dispatched and the rift they'd come through sealed to prevent more from wandering out. Alistair was given control of the remaining Wardens, who the Inquisitor tasked with helping defeat Corypheus, and was quick to say his farewells. Someone had to let the Wardens at Weisshaupt know what was going on, he said, before adding with the tiniest of barely there smiles, and there was someone waiting for him there that he hadn't seen in far too long.

"If he doesn't knife me for being away for so long," Dorian heard him mutter under his breath as he turned to depart.

Eyebrows rising, he glanced at Hawke, hoping for an explanation. On their travels, Alistair hadn't mentioned anyone who might have held any special significance to him. At the time, Dorian had thought that a dreadful shame. Being a Grey Warden did nothing to detract from Alistair's attractiveness, and as a hero of the Fifth Blight, it seemed impossible to imagine that he hadn't picked up any lovers over the years. But although he'd wanted to do it, he hadn't inquired after his personal life. Alistair got strangely prickly whenever conversation turned in the direction of the Blight.

Hawke noticed the look and shrugged with amusement. "Crows have an interesting way of showing their affection."

About to make a comment about there being entirely too many birds involved with Hawke and his associates, Dorian abruptly realized that he meant  _Antivan_  Crows.  _Well. I'll be damned_. His impression of Alistair, already largely positive, rose considerably.  _Who knew?_

There wasn't much time for socializing after that. There were wounded to take care of, a fortress to search for further threats, a Venatori magister to transport, and an army that needed to get underway back to Skyhold. Dorian did his best to help where he could, lending his meager healing abilities when possible and accompanying Cullen, still eager for battle, through a sweep of the western wing of the fortress.

Dawn was breaking by the time there was an opportunity to sit down. Dorian had just settled on an overturned barrel when he caught sight of Mahanon and Carver making their way across the courtyard. Hawke and Varric, in the middle of a conversation being held in an out of the way corner, looked up at their approach. For once, Solas was nowhere to be found.

"Well," Mahanon said, coming to a halt beside Dorian. He dropped a hand to his shoulder and gave it a squeeze in greeting as his gaze roamed the courtyard. "That's one demon army Corypheus isn't going to have at his disposal."

"Unless he finds another one," Carver replied bleakly.

Mahanon waved that away. "After what we did to his Nightmare, any demon with any sense will think twice about allying with him."

The sideways glance Carver gave him suggested that he didn't share the Inquisitor's feelings on the matter. "If you say so."

"I do." Except there wasn't any arrogance in it. Just a quicksilver smile that cut across Mahanon's face and turned that declaration into something like a joke. "Now." He clapped his hands together. "Who's ready to go save Orlais?"

They might not have seen eye to eye on many things, but Dorian thought that Carver's disgusted groan rather accurately summed up his feelings on dealing with Orlesians as well.


	3. Part Three

Saving Orlais proved to be more difficult than vanquishing a demon army before it managed to leave the Fade, and surprisingly, the challenge they faced had nothing to do with how little any of them actually cared about the fate of the Orlesians. Thanks to his experience with the social politics of Tevinter, Dorian found himself involved in the majority of the meetings that took place on the subject. During a particularly tedious one, Carver morosely asked whether they were  _absolutely_  certain that Celene's assassination played a role in bringing about Corypheus' terrible future. While Josephine glared at him, Mahanon assured him that they were, and Dorian chimed in with the regretful assessment that not even a world without Orlesians was worth allowing Corypheus even a modicum of success. It was a sad but unfortunate truth, and though it would win them no accolades, in the service of a greater good, they needed to take action.

But taking action, while the most useful plan where everything else was concerned, was useless when it came to Orlais. The politics of the country made it impossible for the Inquisitor and his associates to swoop in and kill all those involved in the plot against the Empress. According to Josephine and Leliana, their resident expert on all things Orlesian, there were channels one must go through, favors that must be exchanged, invitations to gatherings that must accepted and declined, before anyone could just deal with the bloody assassin. And simply warning the Empress either violated the terms of their Great Game or would be seen as an extension of it, negating the validity of the claim. Or paradoxically, both.

It was all very frustrating for the more action-oriented members of the Inquisition. By the end of a week's worth of meetings, Mahanon was jokingly—he insisted it was all in good fun, but Dorian had his suspicions about the veracity of that claim—siding with Carver. Cassandra glared at him for it, but there was something in her eyes that suggested she wouldn't have been heartbroken to see the Empire fall either.

In the middle of it, Mahanon got called out to the Emerald Graves and Dorian, eager to get away from more meetings, went with him. He'd been expecting Cullen to accompany them, but instead of accepting the invitation, he declined with no explanation save that he had other matters to attend to and sent Selkor along in his place.

Strangely, the lion's presence in the group pleased Solas, who spent quite a lot of his time in Selkor's company. That left Dorian and Blackwall, of all people, to try to lift Mahanon's spirits when they started to sag too low. It would have been better if Varric had been there instead, but he was off on some venture with Hawke, presumably reliving the glory days of their time together in Kirkwall.

Despite all the nature he had to slog through and the corrupted templars that kept trying to kill them, the trip was a welcome respite from the Orlais problem. It was warmer there, too, so Dorian could actually enjoy being outdoors for a change. He wondered what it was that had Cullen so busy, but casually questioning Selkor revealed neither hints nor a sense that he had anything to be worried about. He did his best not to obsess over it. Soon enough, he'd be back at Skyhold and would be able to ask Cullen himself.

After nearly two weeks, he  _was_  back at Skyhold and Cullen wasn't there. Felix hadn't seen him since before Dorian had left, Carver had no idea where he'd gone, and Varric, who knew everybody's business and likely would have known  _something_ , still wasn't back from his little adventure with Hawke. It was all quite irritating, truth be told, and it was with some tiny—enormous, actually, though he would never admit it—sliver of petulance that Dorian threw himself into avoiding more dull meetings by searching for Corypheus' real name.

Corypheus was one of  _the_  Tevinter magisters, after all, and there was nothing Tevinter magisters prized like names and lineages. Somewhere, the names of the magisters who went into the Fade in search of the Golden City were written down. And if he could find out what Corypheus' was, if he could prove that he was part of a family with poor standing, some of the shine would wear off and many of those who might be tempted to join the Venatori would think better of it.

Though Skyhold contained a vast array of books, it quickly became clear that it was sorely lacking in Tevinter tomes. Specially, the  _Liberalum_ , which would have the name if anything did. But two days' of searching was turning up nothing of use.

Dorian was in the middle of flipping irritably through a book that, though purportedly written by a Tevinter scribe, clearly was the product of someone who had never actually met anyone from Tevinter, when the light rap of knuckles against the bookcase drew his attention away it. Looking up, he saw Cullen standing there watching him, a faint upward cant to the corner of his mouth.

"Where have you been?" Dorian demanded, slamming the book closed and shoving it unceremoniously back onto the shelf.

It wasn't the best greeting he could have given him. It wasn't even what he'd intended to say when he opened his mouth. But the words rushed out without permission from his brain, and in their wake, the irritation he'd been feeling over Cullen's mysterious absence bubbled up. He probably would have felt bad about it eventually, but instead of taking offense at his attitude, Cullen just smiled at him.

_Smiled_  at him! After leaving him for two weeks without a word or an explanation!

"I've missed you too," Cullen said breezily, as if Dorian hadn't just greeted him with obvious ire. "How fared your mission to the west?"

Knowing Cullen and the absurd way he tended to prioritize subjects for conversation, the question more than likely wasn't meant as a distraction from Dorian's. Were he in a reasonable mood, he might have accepted it as Cullen's way and did his best to steer the discussion back to what he wanted to know. But he wasn't feeling a great need to be reasonable or diplomatic at the moment.

"How fared  _yours_?" he shot back, scrutinizing him through narrowed eyes. "Do you ever mean to tell me of it or shall it remain a secret between us forever?"

Ignoring what ought to have been a very clear signal that Dorian was to be approached with caution, Cullen came forward, caught him with a hand clasped around the side of his neck, and kissed him. The sheer audacity of the maneuver startled Dorian into stillness, his mouth partially open in what would have been a protest if he'd been able to use it properly. Cullen wasted no time taking advantage of that lapse and licked past his lips, deepening the kiss into something thoroughly inappropriate for standing in the middle of a public library.

Although he wouldn't have admitted it even if he hadn't been angry, it was exactly the sort of kiss he often dreamed of while living in Tevinter. Open, honest, passionate, and utterly unconcerned about who might witness it or what effect it might have on one's social standing. Maybe that was why he didn't push Cullen away like he should have done. Or maybe, his desire to strangle him notwithstanding, he'd simply missed Cullen, and this, too much to bring it to a premature end.

Cullen drew back as Dorian was about to return the kiss, lifting his lips just as far as necessary to speak clearly. "Dorian," he murmured, his voice so fond that it made something in Dorian's chest twist and clench. "You see shadows where there is only light."

"And you're being insufferable," Dorian retorted swiftly, though not even he could pretend that there was a suitable amount of heat in his voice for it to be admonishing.

"The Land of Dreams was harsh and unforgiving to you," Cullen replied reasonably, his tone indicating that he thought such a statement was incredibly illuminating. It was not. It took Dorian shaking his head, baffled as to what in the Maker's name the Fade had to do with Cullen's odd disappearance, for him to continue. "I thought I might ease your mind somewhat."

"By disappearing?"

Dorian could not claim to be a master at deciphering Cullen's occasionally mystifying comments and actions. He tried his best, and the longer they were together, the more accustomed to Cullen's nonsense he became, but there were still moments, like this one, where it was practically impossible to follow his unfathomable barbarian logic.

Removing his hand from Dorian's neck, Cullen took a step back and reached into the pouch on his belt. No." Catching Dorian's wrist in his free hand, he turned it over and placed something cool and hard in his palm. "By returning to you something that was stolen."

_What?_  Bewildered, Dorian looked down, half-expecting to find a generic looking rock that Cullen was going to insist had special magical powers that would summon Hakkon's breath and cleanse his mind of the disturbing images he'd glimpsed in the Fade or some other senseless rubbish. But it wasn't a rock at all. It was a gold chain, coiled haphazardly around a an amulet that Dorian would have recognized if he’d been blind and only able to run his fingers over the face of it. He blinked, expecting the vision to vanish and something infinitely less valuable to take its place, but when he looked again, the chain and amulet remained unchanged.

"This is my—" Almost unable to take his eyes off of it, Dorian glanced up at Cullen in disbelief. "I traded this nearly two years ago. How did you...?"  _Find it? Know it existed in the first place?_

As far as he could remember, he'd never specifically mentioned the amulet in any of his conversations with Cullen. He'd told him once that he'd had to sell a few of his possessions on his journey south, but he hadn't gone through the trouble of describing any of them. There hadn't been a point. The items were gone. He knew better than to think that he would ever see them again.

And yet here he was, two years later, looking at the one thing he actually had cause to regret parting with. Because of Cullen. An Avvar with only the most rudimentary understanding or appreciation for personal property.

Cullen could have claimed any number of feats in explanation. Dorian was too shocked to dispute any of them and wouldn't have been able to ferret out the truth in any case. "Varric located it," he said simply, the easy way in which he relinquished the potential credit he might have received for the discovery testament to the truth of it. "After Garrett explained its significance to me. Through tales from his husband, he is quite knowledgeable of your people and their customs. I would not have known of its existence were it not for him."

"Yes, but..." He didn't know why he was protesting, only that he couldn't shut his mouth and in lieu of anything useful coming out of it, nonsense was escaping. "Where did you find it?"

"Val Royeaux. A merchant there had it in his possession."

That was even more difficult to credit than having the amulet back. " _You_  went to Val Royeaux and haggled with an Orlesian merchant?"

Dorian could barely imagine Cullen standing on a street in Val Royeaux, much less convincing a man like Ponchard, whom he suspected was the merchant under discussion, to give up something so valuable. There had to be more to this story than the bits Cullen was giving him.

Cullen shrugged, no doubt not recognizing the cognitive dissonance currently assailing Dorian. "Varric and Garrett accompanied me."

_Well, that explains where they've been._  And it just might explain how Cullen convinced Ponchard to hand over the amulet, too. An Avvar man, former thane or not, would have no leverage and nothing of value to offer. But the Champion of Kirkwall and the famed Varric Tethras? That was a different matter entirely. Both of them carried significant prestige that, to an Orlesian, a barbarian never could. Still, this  _was_ Cullen. It paid to get clarification.

"You didn't kill him, did you?" Dorian asked, slanting him a sideways glance.

Snorting, Cullen gave a slight shake of his head. "A man like that is not worthy of my sword."

No, that he certainly was not. Dorian could recall the man quite well: thin, a bit weaselly, with an oily, ingratiating manner that was disgustingly transparent. He wasn't worth being dispatched by an enchanted blade, though given how strong Cullen was, he could've probably broken the bastard's neck with his bare hands.

"How  _did_  you convince him to part with it?"

In the end, it truly didn't matter how he'd gotten a hold of the amulet. What mattered the most to Dorian was the simple fact that Cullen had cared about him to such a remarkable extent: to pursue some random bit of conversation that he'd had with Hawke while doing Maker only knew what, to notice that he'd never seen Dorian in possession of something Hawke probably told him all Tevinters of high standing carried about on their person, to track down a man that could have been anywhere in the world, to go to Val Royeaux in pursuit of a piece of metal that had value only because a culture he didn't understand said that it did. All because, if Dorian was interpreting his Avvar-speak correctly, Dorian had had an unpleasant time in the Fade.

Three years ago, he would have never believed that he would meet someone like Cullen, to say nothing of someone like Cullen falling in love with him.

_I really don't deserve him._ Self-reflection on a stomach empty of wine—in a pinch, that miserable Fereldan ale would do—did not come easily and was never received positively when it managed to barge into his life, but when it crashed through the barriers his mind had erected to keep it at a harmless distance, Dorian had to acknowledge it.  _The poor man goes through all that trouble to locate the amulet and I act like an ungrateful ass._ He knew that there was no way he could have guessed at the truth, but this was hardly the first time he had assumed the worst where Cullen was concerned.  _I need to do better than this._

"Varric threatened to..." Cullen trailed off, his gaze growing abstracted as he sought to remember. "I believe his exact phrasing was, 'cut you off from your contacts so fast you'll be lucky if you ever earn another copper in your life.' Hawke casually mentioned turning the markets in the Free Marches against him too." A lopsided smile stole over the scarred side of his mouth. "I'd planned to insinuate that I'd separate him from his head, but Hawke felt that wasn't an appropriately dire threat."

"Against an Orlesian merchant?" Dorian chuckled low in his throat. "Not by half. All they care about is their reputation and the size of their coin purse."

Cullen lifted a hand and brushed the backs of his knuckles across Dorian's cheek. "It pleases you, then?"

"Terrorizing merchants?" He leaned into the touch, eyes slipping closed as he smiled. "Always."

"I meant—"

_Oh, honestly. As if I meant that._ Dorian opened his eyes and sought Cullen's. " _Yes_ , you foolish man. Yes, it does."

Sliding his free hand up around Cullen's neck, Dorian urged him down for another kiss. He obliged without hesitation, but before their lips touched, Dorian tipped his head back slightly to forestall it. "Do you know what else would please me?" he whispered, looking up at Cullen through his eyelashes.

"Hm?"

Leaning in just far enough that when he spoke, his lips brushed against Cullen’s, Dorian murmured, "Come back to our room with me and I'll show you."

He could feel Cullen's smile as it formed, prompting his own to grow in answer. Then the world shifted, the ground lurching out from under his feet so suddenly that he grabbed desperately at Cullen, for balance as much as to prevent them from getting separated as the fortress...

Only the fortress  _wasn't_  crumbling around him. The dizzying swirl of color steadied after a moment, affording him an odd, upside-down view of the library. And the dull thudding impact that briefly pressed the breath from his lungs wasn't a broken chunk of granite crashing into his chest. It was merely Cullen's broad shoulder.

And the horrifying truth became clear.

"Don't you dare," Dorian hissed, banging his fist on Cullen's back to further emphasize just how serious that command was. "Put me down right now!"

Corypheus' blighted dragon attacking Skyhold, however terrible that would have been for the Inquisition and Thedas in general, was something that he could have handled with an appropriately dignified amount of poise. Cullen carrying him through the hallways in such a hopelessly embarrassing manner where anyone could, and no doubt would, see him was, on the other hand, absolutely unthinkable.

But Cullen didn't seem to care that he was behaving like the stereotypical uncouth barbarian everyone with an ounce of civilization in their blood believed the Avvar to be or that Dorian was already dying of mortification and they hadn't even left the library yet. People were staring. Dorian could see them looking at them, though thankfully, there weren't as many people wandering the shelves at this time of day. Still, gossip traveled like wildfire through Skyhold and from the poorly muffled giggles he could hear emanating from some of the gawkers, this was going to set a record.

"Cullen, I mean it," Dorian tried again, knowing it was going to fall on deaf ears. "I will set on you on fire."

The bastard laughed at him. Actually  _laughed!_  And started walking. "You'll only catch yourself in the blaze."

It was the smallest of mercies that he chose not to head down the stairs and through the main hallway. Solas was down there, puttering around doing whatever he did when he wasn't  _talking_ —Dorian believed they spent so much time merely talking about as much as he believed that the darkspawn only wanted to bring peace and love to Thedas—with Mahanon, and if Cullen would have carted him past that insufferable arse like a sack of potatoes, Dorian would have had to murder both of them. But instead of subjecting him to that intolerable humiliation, Cullen carried him out the nearest doorway onto the battlements. At least half a dozen people witnessed their graceless exit from the library, however, so the consolation Dorian could scrabble together was minimal.

Hoping to make the journey as uncomfortable for Cullen as it was for him, Dorian kneed him in the gut. "You're sleeping on the floor tonight."

Again, with absolutely no consideration for the damage he was doing to Dorian's already piss-poor reputation, Cullen laughed and gave him a reassuring pat right on the ass. He was never going to be able to live this down. It was awful. No one would ever be terrified of him again.

Dorian was in the middle of trying to decide if it would be worth it to take a minor scorching for the sake of setting Cullen's damn loincloth on fire when, halfway to their destination, a side door opened and Felix walked out. He didn't seem to notice them at first, attention focused on a sheaf of parchment in his hands, but eventually he looked up and stopped dead in the middle of the path.

Cullen did not stop, thank the Maker, though he did clap Felix on the shoulder in greeting as he gleefully marched past him. Felix made a strangled sort of coughing noise that Dorian  _knew_  was half-hearted pathetic attempt to choke back laughter.

"Not one bloody word," Dorian muttered balefully to him in Tevene.

Fully prepared to light the hem of Felix's tunic on fire—he might not have had much in the way of magical proficiency, but he was capable of smothering a tiny flame if he had to do it—Dorian kept his eyes on him the rest of the miserable journey. Felix's grin got wider and wider the further away danger got, and there was a noticeable shake to his shoulders that belied his silent laughter, but Dorian didn't hear a peep out of him. That, he knew, would come later.

Still, if there was any tarnished silver-lining to be found in this debacle, it was that now Felix couldn't call him a liar about Cullen's strength anymore. That was something.

And so was the manner in which Cullen made the indignity up to him as soon as the door to their chamber closed behind them.

* * *

"You hate us, don't you, Josephine?" Dorian asked mournfully, staring at the ghastly travesty that had just been revealed as the Inquisition's official uniform for the Orlesian peace talks.

It was sitting in the back of the war room, neatly outfitting a mannequin that looked as if it had been modeled after Mahanon's measurements. They'd gathered there about thirty minutes prior—Mahanon, his advisors, and whichever of his closest associates they'd been able to round up on short notice—to go over the plan to save Orlais. From what Leliana and Josephine had told them before the conversation had devolved into a critique of fashion, Celene was holding peace talks with her cousin Gaspard under the pretense of a masquerade ball. Through Gaspard, in a blatantly obvious attempt to capitalize on the Inquisition's power for his own political gain, they had received an invitation to the ball. And that, Mahanon's advisors had concluded, was the perfect opportunity to get to court, ferret out Celene's assassin before the Empress was killed, and prevent the chaos that would allow Corypheus to seize control of the country.

In theory, it was all very well and good. Mahanon had agreed that the plan was sound and, despite his reservations about hobnobbing with the Orlesian elite and his ability to even attempt to play the Game, gave it his seal of approval. The trouble came from an unexpected quarter, when Josephine had revealed the uniform she'd commissioned for all the attending members of the Inquisition and practically everyone in the room had balked at it.

Coming from Tevinter and having met quite a few Orlesians by this point, to say nothing of his time with the Avvar, Dorian was no stranger to ugly clothes. The proposed uniform wasn't the worst thing he'd ever seen, but it certainly wasn't among the least offensive either.

The garish red jacket with its too bright yellow accents would have been bad enough on its own. Judging from the way it hung on the mannequin, it was tight across the chest and shoulders and then flared into a shapeless sack around the hips. But there was a blue sash that appeared to serve no purpose whatsoever except to clash horribly with the color of the jacket, dull brown trousers that seemed unable to decide if they wished to be skin tight or somewhat baggy, a basic leather belt cut entirely too long, knee-high boots that didn't match the belt  _at all_ , and a pair of oversized gloves in yet another unappealing shade of brown.

And the worst part of it was that they were expected to wear it. Not simply in public, which would have been embarrassing in its own right, but at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral. In the court of the Empress of Orlais during an event that would see the most powerful members of the Empire in attendance and a number of visiting dignitaries. As if Dorian wasn't pariah enough to his family and countrymen. He couldn't imagine what they'd say about him once word got out that he wore something so hideous to such an important event.

"What?" Josephine actually looked confused, like she had no idea what he was talking about.

Dorian sighed mournfully. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, what with all the trouble we've caused you over these last few months. Still, I hadn't quite expected it to warrant  _this._ "

She gave him an exasperated frown. "What in the world are you talking about?"

Unwilling to let it go so soon, Dorian made a show of rifling through his clothes. "I believe I've got a knife. Perhaps you'd care to stab me with it now and put me out of my misery quickly?"

Next to him, Mahanon huffed in subdued amusement. "Oh, now that's a bit too dramatic."

Arching an eyebrow, he pointedly looked first at Mahanon, then at the uniform, and finally brought his gaze back where it began. "Is it really?"

In all the time that he'd known the man, he'd never heard him lie. It led him to believe that he either wasn't overly fond of doing it or wasn't very good at it. And now, when a lie might slightly improve morale, Mahanon took a long, silent look at the outfit before quietly muttering, "I might have one on me too. Let me just—"

"Oh, for the Maker's sake!" Josephine cut in, all but throwing her hands into the air. If her annoyed expression was any indication, she desperately wanted to do it and it was likely only her dedication to her role within the Inquisition that kept her from following through with the desire. "It isn't that bad. The two of you are being ridiculous."

Dorian studied her for a moment, considering the possibility of the accusation and finding it wanting. "Cullen?"

Cullen had been quiet during the meeting, not an unusual occurrence for a man who preferred not to speak unless he had something of value to contribute, but there was a furrow in his brow and a faint frown pulling at his lips now, suggesting that he finally had an opinion to give. "Forgive me, Lady Josephine, but I cannot do as you ask."

"You see?" Dorian gave Josephine his most sadly commiserating smile as he said hopelessly, "I've been trying to get him into trousers for months. It doesn't work."

She sniffed so haughtily that she would have put the Archon to shame. "Somehow, I doubt that."

Cullen burst into laughter and did absolutely nothing to smother it. Mahanon made a hilariously feeble effort to disguise his own laughter as a cough, but it wasn't the least bit convincing. Dorian  _tried_  to contain his delighted grin by biting at the insides of his mouth, and when that failed, made a valiant and ultimately doomed attempt to clear the chuckles out of his throat.

"Oh, you  _are_  my favorite," he told her. "Even though you hate us."

"I do not!"

Cassandra entered the war room in the middle of Josephine's protest and paused to take the measure of the meeting. Dorian could imagine how it looked: Josephine growing more flustered and indignant with every protest, the leader of the Inquisition and two of his friends openly laughing, Carver standing on the opposite side of the war table looking extremely constipated as he tried to prevent himself from laughing at Dorian's joke, and Leliana watching on with the tiniest of smirks. She studied them each in turn, giving Mahanon an especially curious look and Dorian one of impatient exasperation. Cullen, Dorian noticed, seemed to escape her open judgment.

"What is the problem?" she asked, after it became apparent that none of them were going to clue her in to what she'd missed.

Josephine sighed as she gestured toward the uniform. "They're objecting to the Inquisition's formal uniform for the ball."

"Men," Cassandra snorted, managing to make the word sound like a curse. "We are going to prevent an assassination. Not make a fashion statement."

That was not the ringing endorsement of Josephine's stylistic expertise for which she was searching. She gave Cassandra a long, hawkish stare in silence for a moment, then said primly, "There are too many nations involved in the Inquisition to cater to everyone's preferences and still present a unified presence at the Winter Palace. It's better to be neutral than risk offending someone."

Surely, she had to realize her mistake as soon as she started saying it. But if by chance she didn't, Dorian was happy to point the stupidity of the error out. "Well," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm already offended."

He hadn't set out that day with the intention to antagonize anyone into losing their temper with him, but now that he'd started chipping away at Josephine's, he couldn't resist seeing how far he could take it. And it was working. There were cracks starting to show in her usually calm demeanor. A narrowness to her eyes. A venomous irritation to the looks she kept giving him. A tension to the set of her jaw that suggested that she was gritting her teeth. Dorian looked at her expectantly, perhaps just a tad mischievously, and lifted his eyebrows in challenge.

Cullen, bless his well-meaning heart, ruined it. "A garment so tight will not afford us the mobility we need for battle."

"Technically," Mahanon said grudgingly, like it was killing him to side with the uniform. "We aren't going there to do battle. We're going to very discreetly murder an assassin. Which takes a lot of the fun out of it, I know," he continued, dropping his voice to false conspiratorial whisper. "But Josephine's threatened to strangle me if I cause a diplomatic incident."

The heat of her glare focused on him. "I did not!"

"You do that anyway," Leliana interjected coolly.

"Not on purpose," he quickly corrected her.

A low sound of disbelief, half hum and half grumble, drifted over from Cassandra's direction as she glowered disapprovingly at him.

"Sometimes on purpose," Mahanon amended with a dismissive shrug. "Look, we survived the Fade. I'm sure we can survive stiff jackets."

"I'm not," Carver grumbled, giving the uniform the sort of look he typically reserved for Dorian whenever Felix insisted on the three of them spending time together. The only time he  _wasn't_  unenthusiastic about Dorian's presence was when he brought Cullen with him. Carver, like practically everyone else on Thedas, liked Cullen. "Why do  _I_  have to wear it? I'm not going to the blighted party."

"Yes you are," Josephine corrected him. "All members of the Inquisition's delegation will be attending the ball."

Carver looked so betrayed by that pronouncement that Dorian almost felt sorry for him. And because he was suddenly afflicted with an acute case of sympathy, he offered winningly, "Chin up, Little Hawke. Felix rather appreciates a man in uniform."

He meant it in the best way possible, but Carver glowered at him while Mahanon once again struggled with a fake cough. "I hate you."

"As much as the uniform?" Dorian asked innocently.

Foreseeing trouble brewing on the horizon, Josephine intervened with a pointed, " _Gentlemen_ , if you please." Then, because even she must have realized that none of them pleased, she added severely, "The uniforms will be ready by the time we march next week."

"Well," Mahanon said with false cheer, trying to break up the disturbed silence that descended on the room at that pronouncement of doom. "This will be fun, won't it?"

"No," Carver snapped, refusing to admit defeat with grace.

With the matter settled, Josephine checked her notes. Maker only knew what was in there. She never went anywhere without them and she always knew far more about everyone's business than she really ought to have known. Whether that was due to her Antivan heritage or she was capitalizing on her friendship with Leliana, Dorian had yet to be able to determine.

"If there's no further  _pertinent_  questions," she said, looking up and glancing around at each of them in turn. "That's all I have."

With no further questions and no one interested in lingering, the meeting broke up. Dorian and Cullen were among the last to make their exit, Mahanon having been the first to hurry out like all of the demons of the Fade were chasing him, and as they were passing through the doorway, Josephine called out.

"Oh, Cullen?" He and Dorian exchanged a look, though he obligingly came to a halt and looked back at her. "Do you mind waiting a moment? There's something I want to discuss with you."

"Of course." He pressed his hand briefly to Dorian's back, then asked softly, "I'll meet you at the tavern?"

Dorian nodded, meeting his eyes before shooting a curious look beyond him to Josephine. Neither her posture nor her expression gave anything away. With no help for it and Cullen already turning around to rejoin her at the table, Dorian kept walking. Any hope he had of catching a few words of the conversation was dashed as the door shut firmly behind him. Unless they started shouting at each other, the thick wood would muffle every sound they made to the point of inaudibility.

_Might as well get a glass of wine while I wait,_ Dorian decided, practically itching with curiosity and no way to relieve it in the immediate future.  _Perhaps I'll have two if they take too long._  By the time he reached the main hall, he decided he would just save himself the effort and get an entire bottle. The Maker only knew how long they'd be at it.

* * *

Thanks to pleasant weather and a trouble-free journey, the Inquisition's delegation to the Winter Palace arrived at the chateau with two days to spare before the grand event. It was the residence of a minor Orlesian lord, who was either an ally of Gaspard or someone who owed him a favor, for use of the property was granted to the Inquisition for the duration of their stay in the city. Conveniently located on the outskirts of Halamshiral, it was a short ride's distance from the palace, making it the perfect place to house everyone until the peace talks were over and they could return to Skyhold.

To Dorian's delight, it meant the sort of sumptuous beds and extravagant bathing facilities he'd been missing since his flight from Minrathous. He went directly to their suite, practically dragging his recalcitrant husband with him. Although there was nothing like the chateau on Avvar lands, Cullen was not the least bit enthusiastic about their temporary quarters. His list of disparaging complaints with the place was rather long and started as soon as they walked through the gates.

Foremost was that it was too ostentatious, which Dorian actually agreed with. In their quest to display their wealth and power, Orlesians had elevated gaudy excess to a level that would have embarrassed even the most tasteless magister. Following that were the issues Cullen had with its impracticality: the building itself was too large for the number people in it, the rooms were too big and many served no purpose, the land around it was trimmed and shaped and tortured to an unnatural degree, the staff seemed to think everyone was incapable of doing even the most basic of tasks and tried to do everything for them. And then there were the complaints that Dorian suspected he was only making to be disagreeable: the bed was too soft, the water they used for washing felt odd, the room was stuffy, the amount of linens they were given for bathing was wasteful, the food was terrible.

The only joy he seemed to take in the whole affair was the discomfort Falkyr and Selkor caused the staff. They obviously hadn't been told of the animals' coming and had no idea how to deal with wild animals moving among the gilded furniture and marble floors with purpose so intelligent that it rivaled most of them. They must have shared Cullen's contempt, because it quickly became clear that they were going out of their way to traumatize the Orlesians.

With the uncanny eye of a jewel merchant, Falkyr always chose the most expensive piece of furniture or fragile chandelier in the room as his perch. He also tended to streak into areas at high speeds and pass far too close to their hosts for comfort. Selkor seemed to instinctively divine who among the staff felt the greatest sense of superiority to their guests, for he quickly took to stalking them. More than once, Dorian heard a shriek of alarm as a fussy Orlesian turned a corner and walked headlong into the awaiting lion, who often chose that moment to unleash a mighty yawn and show off every one of his razor-sharp teeth.

"You're instigating, aren't you?" Dorian asked mildly the following morning, as he caught sight of Cullen grinning after a footman who was scurrying out of the room like the archdemon was chasing him.

"Hm?" Cullen returned innocently, peering at him as if he had not even the slightest notion what he was talking about.

Behind him, Dorian saw Selkor oh so casually scratch at his ear with one sharp claw.

"We're trying to  _stop_  a war," he reminded them both primly. "Not start a new one."

Snorting, Cullen lifted his hand and beckoned for Dorian to join him. It was such a thoughtlessly imperious gesture that he had to tamp down on the urge to smile as he moved closer. Cullen had thrown himself down onto the chaise lounge prior to the footman's arrival and hadn't bothered rising when he had. He was now sprawled on it much the way he'd often sat on his throne back at the hold, half sitting and half reclining. He was leaning against the low arm, one leg dangling over the side of the lounge and the other folded against the back of it, booted foot planted directly on the cushion with no regard to whether the sole was clean or not. The loincloth was doing the best it could, but the wide spread of his legs made covering everything vital a trying task.

Despite his everyman attitude, he looked every inch the king his people had made of him.

"Come here," he said, catching Dorian's wrist as soon as he was within reach and giving him a demanding tug.

Too appreciative of the view to put up a mock resistance, Dorian let himself be pulled down on top of him. Unlike the uncivilized contingent in the room,  _he_  was fully clothed, though he was not in such haughty a mood that he was going to waste the opportunity presented to him. Nudging Cullen's hips toward the center of the chaise, Dorian straddled them and settled atop his thighs. Once he was comfortable, he slowly smoothed his palms over the broad expanse of Cullen's bare chest, lingering over the touch as if to reacquaint himself with territory nearly forgotten.

Cullen remained relaxed against the arm of the chaise, doing nothing more than sliding his hands up Dorian's legs. As marvelous as his trousers were at keeping the chill of the road at bay, they were too thick to allow him to feel the warmth of those hands against his skin. Yet despite its absence, a hint of desire still tingled through his body as they came to rest in the center of his thighs.

"We've got quite a bit of time to ourselves," Dorian murmured, playing at a nonchalance that was neither believable nor necessary. His fingertips traced the curve of Cullen's pectoral muscles. "Nearly a day and a half, in fact."

"And how do you mean to spend it?" Cullen asked, smiling up at him with such a lazy, crooked twist to his lips that it took all of Dorian's willpower not to kiss it off.

"Oh, I don't know." He circled Cullen's nipple with the tip of his forefinger, feeling at slight smile of his own tug at his mouth as Cullen's eyelids shuttered at the sensation. "I'm certain I can come up with a few ideas if I put my mind to it."

The dullest of scratches drew Dorian's attention to his thighs, where Cullen's fingers were slowly curling inward. "Need you a place to begin?"

_I know quite well where you'd like me to begin_ , Dorian thought, letting his amusement stir that hint of desire. A single glance down made  _that_  clear enough. Cullen was already growing hard, and with his loincloth now hopelessly askew, there was nothing to conceal it. Pity teasing Cullen at least for a little while was so appealing, else he would have wasted no time in taking him in hand and coaxing his cock to fullness.

Humming a thoughtful note, Dorian drew his hands down, away from Cullen's chest to the contours of his abdomen. He would have liked to have followed that path with his mouth, but he knew that if he leaned in too close, he would lose what minuscule advantage he had. "I thought perhaps we'd start with a nap."

Nearly closed, Cullen's eyes snapped open and he fixed Dorian with a look so disgruntled that Dorian couldn't resist grinning at him. Sometimes it was just too easy.

"What?" he asked innocently. "The bed's terribly comfortable and I distinctly recall  _someone_  preventing me from getting a full night's sleep last night. Besides, we've an audience."

Selkor was doing his best to pretend they weren't in the room. He was laying on his side in front of the balcony, basking in the sunlight streaming in through the huge windows, eyes closed and the tip of his tail idly flicking back and forth. But he was still there, able to hear and see everything they did. Dorian wasn't entirely certain that he'd be comfortable engaging in sexual activities in front of a normal animal, much less one that ordinarily was almost as smart as a person and just so happened to be possessed by a spirit that was probably smarter than most people.

Cullen didn't seem to be bothered by his presence at all, which was as understandable given his upbringing as it was strange to Dorian's sensibilities. The Avvar believed that there were gods in everything. What shame he might have had once upon a time had probably been lost before he was old enough to know what it was.

Still, Cullen was nothing if not considerate when he knew that a problem existed. "Selkor," he called immediately, somehow managing to sound like he wasn't the least bit impatient to have Dorian naked on his lap despite the way he was devouring him with his eyes. "May we have the room for a time?"

Had it been Dorian doing the talking, it wouldn't have been such a politely phrased request. A short  _Selkor, out!_ and a rather vehement point toward the door would have been all the consideration the lion would have received. Not, as once would have been the case, because Selkor was an animal, but simply because Dorian was rarely patient when it came to his libido and Cullen.

Selkor rose before Cullen was even finished speaking, confirming Dorian's suspicion that he'd been well aware of what they were doing and tacitly ignoring them. He went straight to the door of the suite, scratched at it until it opened just far enough to permit him to slip out, and left without a backward glance. That left the door ajar, and even with Cullen stretched out underneath him, Dorian found it was impossible to ignore it. Orlesians were by and large a nosy lot. There was not even a smidgen of doubt in his mind that if any of them happened upon their quarters, they would have an audience. As shameless as he often was, having sex for the entertainment of Orlesians was one of the last things he wanted to do.

Minimal though he knew his prospects of success were, Dorian couldn't resist calling after Selkor, "Shut the door!"

Truly, he had no expectation that Selkor would do it. Lion paws weren't made for gripping doorknobs. But if Selkor didn't do it, the task would fall to him, and he wasn't the least bit inclined to vacate his perch unless he had no other choice. Predictably, there was no response.

"Well," he said regretfully, grazing his fingertips over Cullen's navel. "I suppose I'd better get—"

The sound of the latch clicking silenced him before he could finish the sentence. Surprised, he glanced over and sure enough, the door was closed. How Selkor had managed it, he didn't know, but there hadn't been anyone else nearby who might have done it in his stead.

Laughing, Dorian turned back to Cullen. "I can't believe he actually did it."

"Civility knows no boundaries," Cullen replied wisely, the note of amusement in his voice changing the comment from smug superiority to a good-natured, lighthearted jest. It faded as he continued in a darker, silkier tone. "The same cannot be said for patience."

"Can it not?" Dorian returned archly. "You seem to be an endless fount of patience at the most inconvenient times."

Yet despite the teasing, his hands returned to Cullen's abdomen as he spoke as if it was difficult to keep them away. He ran them outward, away from each other to stroke along his sides. First up toward his ribs, then down over his hips. As they reached the top of his thighs, Dorian spread his fingers wide and slowly pushed them back up. On the way, his thumbs came precariously close to Cullen's cock. Not quite near enough to make contact, but sensitivity heightened by anticipation caused Cullen to inhale a little sharper than normal.

"If you mean to see how quickly it can fray," he said, fingers kneading into Dorian's legs. "Keep on this path."

Dorian repeated the gesture, though considerably slower this time, and when his hands rose, he allowed one of his thumbs to lightly run along the entire length of his cock. "You forget how enjoyable such a loss of patience can be if you believe that to be an adequate threat."

He wasn't certain if he genuinely meant to goad Cullen into taking over or not. There were as many benefits to keeping control as there were to losing it, and with as much time as they had at their disposal, he suspected that there would be ample opportunity to explore both options to his satisfaction. However, there was a limit to his own patience, and now that he'd touched Cullen directly, it was extraordinarily difficult to go back to withholding the contact that they both wanted.

"Still," he continued thoughtfully, shifting his hand so that his palm could follow the path his thumb had just taken. Cullen made another unsuccessful bid for a firmer touch, but Dorian's weight kept him pinned when he tried to lift his hips. "I'm feeling rather generous at the moment. If you'd care to indulge me later, I can—"

Shouting broke out just then, loud enough that it startled them both into motionlessness.  _What in the Maker's name is going on?_  Their eyes met before, as one, they looked at the door. The shouting continued but the volume did not increase, suggesting that whatever was going on wasn't coming closer to them. But more voices were joining the chorus and through the open window, the distinct ring of metal meeting metal drifted in.

It crossed his mind to ignore it. Cullen was hard, he was well on his own way to getting there, and they were  _so_ close to having sex. Postponing their enjoyment of one another simply because someone had gotten fed up with the Orlesians and a fight had broken out seemed like an idiotic thing to do. But his arousal couldn't fully eclipse his common sense, and though he was loath to admit it, Dorian knew that the cause of the commotion might be far more dangerous than a group of rowdy Fereldan soldiers. Corypheus' forces could be attacking. The uneasy truce currently allowing the peace talks to take place might have dissolved, allowing the War of the Lions to have started back up again with renewed vigor.

Cullen's thoughts must have taken the same course as his own, for after a moment, he took hold of Dorian's wrist and gently pulled his hand away from where it was still resting against his cock. "There will time for us later," he said softly, a complicated mixture of regret and determination in his eyes.

_Leave it to the former thane to be the selfless, responsible one._ Dorian knew it was true—at least, he hoped that the world wasn't ending and there would in fact be time for them later—and he never would have been able to live with himself if he ignored the ruckus only to have something horrible come about because of it. But Maker, if it wasn't frustrating to always have yet another crisis interrupting them and demanding their time.

"Of course," he agreed, pushing himself up and off of the chaise.

Dorian spared a few seconds to straighten his clothes while Cullen went immediately for their weapons. As they left their chambers, Dorian caught him by the back of the belt and quickly rearranged his loincloth so that he didn't inadvertently reveal his full glory to the archdemon or whatever was attacking the chateau. Cullen gave him a look, clearly not properly appreciating his foresight, but submitted to the process without a word. Then they were off, racing through the halls toward the front of the building. Along the way, they passed a few Inquisition soldiers also headed in the same direction, but they had no more information than Cullen and Dorian possessed.

Expecting to have to dodge fires or falling masonry, Dorian was relieved when they encountered nothing of the sort and passed through the entranceway without encountering a pitched battle with a ravenous horde of monsters. Outside, it was significantly more crowded, most of the chateau's occupants having arrived before they did, and the shouting was louder. Clearer, too.

"Get him!" was a frequently yelled command, vying for most popular shout with wordless, garbled shrieks of pain. "Someone get the Inquisitor!" another voice yelled, while someone else called, "We need more soldiers!"

Stealing himself for whatever horror awaited them, Dorian shot a glance at Cullen, began drawing magic to his hand, and shoved through the crowd. The fireball coalescing in his palm unraveled, swirling out into smoke, as he stopped and stared in dumbfounded confusion. Men and women were strewn about the ground like a giant hand had scattered them, though from the feeble groaning and half-hearted flopping about, it seemed that none of them were dead. In the middle of the felled warriors was a single cloaked figure and a large group of what remained of the Inquisition's soldiers. The soldiers were obviously attempting to apprehend the figure, but it was going through them with disturbing ease.

Sunlight flashed off the blades of twin swords as the figure spun and pivoted through the forces arrayed against it, moving at a speed so impressive it was a struggle to follow it fully. Each strange strike it made found purchase, yet as the soldiers fell, Dorian saw no blood staining their uniforms and nothing on the blades themselves. It took four of the fools dropping to the ground for him to realize that the oddness of the strikes was caused by the figure reversing the blade at the last second and cracking its opponents with a less-lethal part of the sword.

"Another friend of yours?" Dorian asked Cullen, taking his eyes off of the spectacle for a moment to arch an eyebrow at him.

"No," Cullen confessed quietly. "I've not seen anyone move this fast."

The Inquisition's numbers were getting smaller and the Inquisitor had yet to arrive and try to take control of the situation. That left the two of them between whatever it was running unchecked through the chateau and the civilian contingent.

"This is going to be unpleasant, isn't it?" Dorian murmured rhetorically, already knowing that they were in trouble.  _Fire isn't going to help. Lightning, perhaps? I may be able to slow it down a little, but..._ He could have tried to kill it, but it wasn't killing their people. In fact, it looked like it was deliberately choosing  _not_  to kill them. There had to be a reason. Until they discovered what it was, he simply couldn't do it.

"We will hold it," Cullen assured him, demonstrating once more his willingness to ignore the reality in front of him.

The last soldier fell. The figure paused, its tattered cloak snapping in the breeze in the most ridiculously melodramatic fashion. Dorian was almost as impressed at the coincidence as he was annoyed that it never worked out that way for  _him_. He could feel whatever it was looking at him, the weight of its gaze nearly suffocating.

_Here it comes_ , he thought. Jerking up his hand, Dorian called the lightning as it darted right at him.  _If it bruises my face before the ball, mercy be damned, I really am going to kill it._

A flurry of movement was occurring in his peripheral vision, but Dorian couldn't take his eyes off of his opponent to see what it was. An instant later, he didn't need to, as Hawke's surprised shout drowned out the groans of the fallen.

" _Fenris_?!"

Recognizing the name, Dorian had the presence of mind to dispel the lightning before loosing it. At the same time, Fenris veered sharply to the side, altering his path to take him to Hawke. The whiplash of the last few minutes left Dorian reeling a bit more than he would have liked, but he did his best to prevent his expression from giving away how nonplussed he felt. Turning, he watched Hawke step forward to intercept Fenris and catch him up in an embrace that was as shameless and obviously affectionate as some of the gestures Cullen routinely made.

That Fenris had laid waste to the bulk of the Inquisition's delegation seemed not to bother Hawke at all.

"Are you sure you don't know him?" Dorian whispered to Cullen.

Cullen grinned back at him, his attitude completely at odds with the somber determination from mere moments ago. "They remind you of us, do they not?"

" _I_  have significantly more decorum than that," Dorian said, sniffing with haughty disdain that was mostly fabricated.

While it was true that he wouldn't ever initiate a kiss like the sort that was transpiring between Hawke and Fenris in public, he wouldn't necessarily be opposed to Cullen doing it. Occasionally. If the situation merited it. And perhaps he was just a  _little_  envious at how easily they were doing it and how much they evidently didn't care who was watching. Because they  _really_  didn't care.

"All right," Varric's sarcastic voice called out from somewhere below Dorian's eye level. "Get a room already, would you?"

Out of the great respect he held for Hawke, Dorian did his best to smother his snicker. Cullen did not, though there was a suspiciously appreciative edge to his chuckle that suggested he was going to try to one-up their performance in the future. They broke apart and turned to regard their audience, Hawke with a smile that was slightly inappropriate given the current state of the soldiers and Fenris, whose cowl had long since fallen back away from his face, with a look of haughtiness so refined that Dorian liked him immediately.

"And deny you the opportunity to write a racy novel about it?" Hawke asked jovially.

"Do not," Fenris growled immediately, spearing Varric with a narrow-eyed glare before turning it on Hawke. The passion he'd exhibited only a moment ago was gone as if it had never been there. In its place was only anger. "And do not believe that  _you_  have escaped the explanation you owe me for what happened at Adamant."

_Now_  Hawke looked abashed. "You heard about that, eh?"

"I hate to interrupt," Mahanon said casually as he joined them. "But I'm afraid I still don't know whether we're under attack or not."

In the past, Dorian had witnessed strong men quail in the presence of the Inquisitor. Mahanon was neither imposing nor overly aggressive, but when he chose to use it, he could wield an aura of power and authority that even the those who viewed elves as an inferior race could not ignore. He wasn't using it actively now, yet there was an undercurrent of steel in his voice that suggested a good explanation had best be forthcoming. Fenris didn't even blink.

"I attempted to enter peacefully. Your soldiers sought to bar my way," Fenris replied, regarding him coolly. The severity of his expression lessened only the tiniest fraction. "Had it been an attack, they would be dead."

"Not much can keep the two of them apart," Varric agreed, so smoothly that he would have given Josephine's diplomatic acumen a run for its money.

Fenris side-eyed Hawke with open irritation. "Despite how hard some try to do so."

"I never—"

"We will continue this conversation in private," Fenris snapped curtly, cutting Hawke's protest off before it got started. The unsaid  _now_  hung so palpably in the air that Dorian could have sworn that he actually did hear it.

Hawke must have too, because he sighed heavily and turned toward the chateau without further attempts to explain himself. Dorian saw him press his hand to the small of Fenris' back to guide him forward and caught himself about to wince in preemptive sympathy.  _Bad idea, friend._  But instead of stepping away and bristling further, Fenris just started walking without another glance at any of them.

"Remember me fondly," Hawke murmured as he walked past them.

The beaten soldiers were pulling themselves up off the ground, leaning on each other when necessary and taking the hands offered by the onlookers who, now that the drama had ended, were moving over to them to help. None of them looked to be seriously injured and though they moved stiffly, and in some cases seemed a bit dazed, those Dorian glimpsed didn't seem to be struggling with broken bones. And apart from a few split lips, he didn't see any blood either.

Not interested in cleaning up someone else's mess, Dorian stayed where he was and exchanged a glance with Cullen. It was a pointed glance. The kind of glance that said, quite emphatically,  _Don't you dare run off to play soldier. We were rudely interrupted before and I'd like to get back to what we were doing sometime prior to nightfall, if you please._

Cullen must have read the warning there without difficulty, for he remained at Dorian's side instead of gallivanting off to see to the embarrassed and no doubt terribly sore members of the Inquisition. Even more impressive was the way that he actually moved  _closer_ , as if in demonstration of his commitment to cooperation. Unfortunately for Cullen, it also had a side-effect, proving once and for all that he truly did understand the meaningful looks Dorian gave him and simply chose to play stupid whenever he wished to ignore the message.

"Never a dull moment," Varric muttered, tucking his hands into his pockets as he surveyed the scene.

Dorian rolled his eyes.  _What a brilliantly clever observation! What would we ever do without you?_

"So," Mahanon said into the silence. "Is anyone going to tell me what just happened here?"

* * *

With Fenris no longer terrorizing the chateau, things quickly settled down. A minor kerfuffle got stirred up later that evening when he announced that he was joining Hawke at the Winter Palace and there were no extra uniforms on hand to easily accommodate the extra addition. The matter was solved about two hours after it threw the aesthetics of the delegation into chaos when Dorian and Cullen came down for dinner, caught wind of the latest drama, and Cullen saved the day yet again, this time by volunteering the uniform he refused to wear. It was much too big to fit Fenris, of course, but there were tailors on hand and Josephine called in a few more from the city to make emergency alterations.

After that, they were left to their own devices. Dorian took full advantage of that abundance of free time, absconding to their quarters with a selection of provisions—water, wine, and a basket filled with fruit, bread, and cheese—and locking the door behind him. That left him and Cullen alone for the duration of their stay in their spacious quarters and the Inquisition, a smattering of pesky Orlesians, and a few possessed wild animals on the other side of the door. Although it only amounted to a few hours, it was a welcome reprieve from the stress and horrors of the crisis currently enveloping the world. And it ended far too soon.

The day of the ball dawned sunny and mild, nary a cloud in sky and the air cool but not intolerably so. On his way to breakfast, Dorian overheard more than one person predicting that the ride to the Winter Palace that evening would be a pleasant, enjoyable one. He also happened to overhear someone say as much to Mahanon, who replied to the sentiment with a dark prediction that the ride was probably going to be the only enjoyable thing about it.

_It's such a shame that he has to attend in an official capacity,_  Dorian thought sympathetically.  _It'd be so much more fun for him if he didn't._  Though, perhaps his status as an elf would negate most of it. Orlesians had rather dim views of elves. They also had ridiculous assumptions about what constituted a mage from Tevinter, Dorian had quickly noticed from his time among them, and he had every intention of using those assumptions against them all night. For him, at least, the evening promised to be quite entertaining.

Shortly after the midday meal, deliberately larger than usual to account for missing dinner, the members of the delegation adjourned to their chambers to make ready. Most of them did, anyway. When Dorian swanned into the room, fully intending to waste a quarter of an hour with Cullen, he found the place empty of both his husband and the animal half of their odd little family. In the hope of Cullen arriving before he went through the bother of putting the uniform on, Dorian took his time laying the hideous thing out. Unfortunately, it hadn't gotten more fashionable on the journey to Halamshiral.

He stood there eyeing the jacket for a few minutes, wondering how an Antivan noblewoman who spent so much time dealing with Orlesians could have such an abominable sense of style, before deciding that he wasn't giving her enough credit. This travesty wasn't the result of being aesthetically inept. It was a sly, subtle punishment for how much trouble everyone gave her on a regular basis. It had to be. There was simply no other explanation for it.

Cullen didn't arrive during his ruminations, so he grudgingly went to bathe with the dwindling hope that perhaps he'd turn up in time to join him. But even though he lingered in the huge, ornate tub until the water grew cool twice, Cullen remained frustratingly absent. By that point, Dorian had to dispense with the notion that they might have a bit of fun prior to the ball.  _Whatever he's doing better be important,_  he thought, thoroughly disgruntled.  _Else I shall be quite cross with him._

And given the great likelihood that he was running through the forest on the edge of the estate with Selkor like a witless wild man, Dorian sincerely doubted he would be able to scrounge up a forgivable excuse.

Although it pained him to do it, Dorian forced himself to look in the mirror after he'd gotten the uniform on. There were slight adjustments he needed to make to ensure the whole thing conformed to the shape of his body in as flattering a manner as it was capable of doing and he knew he couldn't do it blindly. He fussed with the collar for a minute or two, then spent about ten more wrestling with the sash until the jacket's fabric wasn't bunching or creasing in awkward places. Not wishing to wear the gloves until it was time to depart, he tucked them into his belt to brush his hair. When it was styled perfectly to his exacting specifications, he collected his staff and left the room in search of Cullen.

_If he's hoping to avoid attending the ball by missing our departure time, I'm going to wring his foolish neck._  Cullen hadn't expressed undue distaste at being forced to endure hours of socializing with vapid Orlesians the way Felix reported that Carver had, but Dorian knew he wasn't looking forward to it. Really, he couldn't blame him for that. Fear would keep the Orlesians mildly respectful to the Tevinter magister—his protests to the contrary having fallen on deaf ears for months, he'd finally given up correcting everybody—in their midst, but he knew that they wouldn't bother trying to be polite to a barbarian from Ferelden. And as revered as he'd been among his people, Cullen hadn't his lifetime of experience in dealing with copious amounts of derision and mockery. Dorian couldn't pretend that it was going to be an easy night for him. But he also didn't relish the possibility of going through it alone either.

After all the years he'd forced to hide who he was, he finally had a partner for a ball that he desired. It would be a terrible waste not to at least  _try_  to coax a dance out of him. Even if he didn't know the steps, one sloppy, embarrassingly bad dance with Cullen would be worth years of dancing with perfect form, grace, and utter disinterest.

But Cullen, uncooperative bastard that he was, resisted being found for so long that Dorian eventually let himself be distracted from his search by Mahanon, who desperately needed assistance with his own terrible uniform and had a partner as difficult to locate as Dorian had. Soon the Inquisitor was looking as sharply, though just as regrettably, dressed as he was, but before they could go seeking their wayward potential dance partners, Hawke happened upon them in the hallway and invited them along to see how Carver was getting on with his finery. Making certain that Cullen wasn't left behind was all very important, yes, but witnessing Carver's discomfort and having something with which to tease him later was vital to Dorian's existence.

After that, it was incredibly easy to lose track of time. There were friends to greet, jokes and complaints to exchange, and all of the minor problems and inconveniences associated with organizing a large group of people into readiness to arrive at a location in a timely manner to deal with. Dorian eschewed being a useful part of the proceedings for a far more entertaining role as amused bystander and occasional instigator. It passed the time and put him into the right mood for an Orlesian diplomatic meeting disguised as an ostentatious party. A glass of wine might have helped with that as well, but knowing he'd be able to secure an unlimited supply of them later prevented him from indulging early.

Eventually, he and Mahanon ended up in the chateau's bustling courtyard, mired in a rather spirited last minute conversation with Josephine and Leliana about the proper protocol to be observed when speaking with a variety of Orlesian nobility. Josephine was taking the matter quite seriously, no doubt envisioning a number of scenarios where Mahanon's tendency to ignore convention disrupted the peace talks, scandalized the entire country of Orlais, and caused the Inquisition a number of other unnecessary problems. Leliana was helping, though with a surprisingly more playful attitude about the whole thing than Dorian was accustomed to seeing from her. He was helping too, adding colorful commentary that earned him a number of dark looks from Josephine and sly, barely perceptible half-smiles from Leliana. But because it was for Mahanon's benefit—learning about Orlesians was dreadfully boring and he knew the best way to remember something was to make it interesting—he gleefully ignored all the glaring disapproval to which he was being so unfairly subjected.

"All right," Mahanon began with false regret, as one of Carver's lieutenants started bringing in the horses. "I suppose we ought to..." He wasn't looking at Josephine or the parade of horses as his voice trailed off into silence. He was staring beyond her, his mouth still partially open on the thought he hadn't finished.

"Inquisitor?" Josephine murmured, eyebrows rising, before looking over her shoulder.

All around them, conversations started dying and before long even the  _clip-clop_  of horse hooves on the cobblestones ceased. A quick glance around the courtyard revealed that everyone was looking off into the same direction as Mahanon, and with an odd, unidentifiable twisty feeling in his gut, Dorian turned.

Walking toward them was Cullen, Selkor keeping pace at his side and Falkyr flying leisurely along above his head. But it was a vision of Cullen unlike any that Dorian had ever seen.

Gone were the shaggy, dull colored furs and leathers Cullen habitually wore. In their place were black leather trousers so dark and supple it looked as if he'd convinced shadows to wrap themselves around his legs. His knee-high boots were crafted of the same material, decorated with the distinctive, unmistakable fur of a red lion. Similar fur hung from his waist in wide panels that reached his knees, held in place by a black belt studded with what looked like white, razor-sharp Lurker teeth. Black leather bracers edged in fur covered his forearms and a band of black leather, strips of it woven together to form a complicated pattern, circled his right bicep. He was bare-chested, every glorious inch of sculpted muscle on display, his skin free of mud and paint save for that strange red line he drew down his face whenever he went to war. His hair was unbound, falling in untamed waves past his shoulders. The strand of sparkling stones Dorian had procured for him in Swift-River Hold was woven into a thin braid near his ear. Not too far away from it was a second braid, from which dangled one of Falkyr’s feathers. A thick fur cloak hung from his shoulders, held closed at his throat by a brooch fashioned from a Lurker talon.

Cullen had never looked particularly civilized before, but now he looked positively feral, like the wilderness had come to life and given itself human form.

_Oh, she’s a clever one, that Josephine_. The realization of what he was seeing snapped Dorian out of his amazement. When she’d finally agreed not to pursue trying to force Cullen into the restrictive uniform, he’d thought she was simply seeing sense and choosing not to fight a losing battle. Now, it was obvious she meant to use what Cullen was to the Inquisition’s favor in the Game. And judging from how stunned the people who knew him were by his transformation, Josephine had made the right decision.

But for all of her wiles, she'd neglected one detail that would ensure that Cullen's arrival at the Winter Palace was not forgotten for a  _long_  time. Smiling, Dorian shook off his temporary paralysis and moved forward to intercept Cullen before he'd crossed the courtyard completely. With as many people present as there were, some of whom were considerably more influential than he was, it was supremely gratifying to watch Cullen's gaze focus on him so tightly that the others might as well have ceased to exist for all the attention they were paid. 

"What say you, husband?" Cullen asked softly as Dorian stopped in front of him, the corner of his mouth curving up into a smile. There was neither uncertainty nor insecurity in his eyes, only that self-possessed confidence he'd exhibited that day in the throne-cave what seemed like a lifetime ago. He knew damn well how good he looked.

"I say you're missing the most important part of the whole ensemble," Dorian replied archly, smirking at him with arrogance so feigned there was no possibility he might have mistaken it for genuine. Dipping his fingers into his unpleasantly tight collar, he fished out his birthright amulet, unclasped its chain, and fastened it around Cullen's neck. "There."

He smoothed his fingers over the snakes, letting his touch linger for a moment on the warm metal. Then he nudged it slightly sideways, adjusting the angle just enough so that the gold ring from which the pendant hung rested against the center of Cullen's sternum.  _No one would ever mistake you as anything but mine now._

"That's perfect." Lifting his eyes as he lowered his hand, Dorian gave him a satisfied smile. "They'll talk of nothing else but you for at least a month."

Lifting an eyebrow, Cullen tipped his chin up. "You think it's the Orlesians I mean to impress?"

"Isn't it?" he returned, his tone serious and challenging though the question itself was mostly in jest.

Silently, Cullen met his eyes and held them, the sheer intensity in his gaze holding Dorian's immobile. There was no need for him to say anything. The look itself was more eloquent than mere words could ever be.

Unwilling to be outdone, Dorian tipped his head sideways and slanted him a heated stare. Knowing Cullen, it was unlikely that his earlier absence had been calculated to avoid being made late for the hour of their departure by an unexpected bout of wildly passionate sex. And undoubtedly that was precisely what would have happened, had he put on that regalia while Dorian had been present in their chambers. As it was, it took every ounce of the decorum that being the scion of one of the oldest and most highly respected families in Tevinter had bred into him not to shove Cullen against the nearest marginally flat surface and demonstrate just how impressed he was.

Instead of giving in to temptation, he murmured, voice a dark, velvety purr, "Given the precariousness of this moment taking a turn toward indecency, you may consider me  _thoroughly_ impressed."

The words had barely finished passing through his lips before Cullen was kissing him. It was so swift and sudden that he stood there motionless while his mind struggled to catch up with what was happening, only managing to reengage with his body after Cullen had pulled him in against his chest and tugged his head back to get better access to his mouth. By then, there was no hope of getting it under control and quite frankly, Dorian didn't want to do that. The thought didn't even cross his mind.

He got his fingers into Cullen's hair, tangled them into it to give himself better leverage, and held him there against his mouth. A low growling hum of appreciation passed between them, seconds before Cullen withdrew his tongue and nipped Dorian hard on the bottom lip. With a hiss that was more surprise than disapproval, Dorian jerked back just far enough to break the kiss and licked his lip, half expecting to find blood. Maker help the brute if he'd just bruised his mouth before an appearance at court. As erotic as it was in private, noticeable evidence of their intimacy in public, even an Orlesian public, was another matter entirely.

Dorian opened his eyes as he prodded his lip with the tip of his tongue—the skin was unbroken and the sting was already fading—and from the periphery of his vision, he was confronted with the reality of how crowded the courtyard was. And how silent, too. Casting a quick, darting glance around, he realized that everyone was still staring, and this time not just at Cullen. More embarrassed than he'd ever admit to being, he softly cleared his throat and disentangled himself as casually as if he'd just stumbled over a stone on the walkway and was hoping that by ignoring his momentary lack of grace, everyone else would as well.

As he straightened his clothes and nonchalantly tried to fix the hair that Cullen had hopelessly mussed, Dorian heard Hawke's voice ring out jovially, "See? It isn't just us."

And because it was still so bloody quiet in the courtyard, he heard a sharp snort that he just  _knew_  came from Fenris.

_They're never going to let me forget this_ , came the mildly horrifying realization.  _None of them. They'll be bringing this up for the rest of my life._ Pointed reminders. Teasing asides. He was going to be subjected to it all. Even worse, Varric would probably find some way to write it into one of his rubbish novels and then the whole blighted world would be able to read about the sophisticated Tevinter altus behaving like his uncivilized barbarian husband. The literate part of the world, anyway. Those who couldn't read would have to wait until the bards picked up the tale.  _Provided Corypheus doesn't manage to kill us all first. That's still a possibility._

Unperturbed at treating half the chateau with an impromptu show and oblivious to Dorian's self-consciousness, Cullen slung his arm around his shoulders and steered him back to the group of people clustered around the Inquisitor. By the time they reached them, everyone in the courtyard had gone back to what they were doing, only shooting the occasional curious look their way. Dorian chose to ignore them, especially when it became obvious that the majority of those glances were of an appreciative nature that was directed solely at Cullen.

"Am I satisfactory to your eyes, Lady Josephine?" Cullen asked her innocently, but Dorian caught the sparkle of amusement in his eyes and knew that he'd phrased the question that way on purpose. They'd both seen her staring at him.

Josephine likely knew it too, because she didn't get flustered the way Cullen was probably hoping that she would. There  _might_  have been the faintest of flushes to her cheeks, but with the sun beginning to set and altering the quality of the light, it was difficult to tell for certain. For the sake of the banter that he knew he'd be engaging in with her later, however, Dorian chose to believe that it was there.

"You'll do," she replied, sounding utterly unimpressed. It was a valiant effort, but no one was fooled by it, least of all Cullen or Dorian.

"Do I still have to go?" Mahanon asked hopefully. "If they're going to be staring at Cullen all night, I can just—"

"No," she told him severely, though she didn't try hard enough to hide her smile. "You're going. Right now, before you run off. They ought to have your mount ready by now." She swept them all up in a stare so stern that it took all of Dorian's self-restraint not to helpfully point out that  _she_ was the greatest threat where mischief was concerned, what with eyeing married men and all. "All of you. Go on."

"I'm not even  _good_  at dancing," Mahanon confided to them, as they made their way to the front of the courtyard. "If these talks hinge on waltzing around the dance floor, we're doomed."

"You should have told me," Dorian responded, clicking his tongue in disappointment. "I could have taught you some of the basic steps." After a moment's consideration, he sniffed. "Though, I suppose it won't be too difficult for you to learn on your feet. The Orlesian style popular these days is far from complicated."

And as dangerous as the Game could be, Orlais wasn't Tevinter. A misstep or two wasn't going to get anyone killed and Dorian doubted it would be worth going to war with the Inquisition over a mistimed or graceless spin. He would probably have to trample some old dowager's toes for that sort of response and that wasn't likely. Mahanon was a Dalish elf; maybe they didn't dance naked in the moonlight and sprinkle flower petals everywhere like the stories said, but all the hunting and traveling and halla riding made them more graceful than most humans. He'd be fine.

If he wasn't, well, the Inquisition had quite a large number of highly skilled individuals in its ranks. Surely a declaration of war or squad of assassins could be headed off before it became a problem. If the rumors going around Skyhold were true, Iron Cow or whatever his stupid name was managed to run off some assassins already. If a Qunari could manage such a feat, the rest of them could undoubtedly do the same.

"I have seen you dance, Mahanon Lavellan," Cullen added. Dorian glanced at him, knowing where this was going and tempted to remind him that it wasn't the same thing  _at all_ , but decided it was best not to waste his breath. "What complicated steps might these lowlanders hiding in their frivolous palaces require of you that you have not mastered already? They do battle with  _words._ " His derision was almost palpable. "You have naught to fear."

Mahanon grinned up at him. "Maybe I should have asked  _you_  for lessons."

"Oh no," Dorian cut in, shaking his head vehemently. "If I can't get him to dance with me a time or two, he'll not be dancing with everyone else instead."

He appeared to consider that for a moment, before slapping Cullen companionably on the arm. "Cullen, my friend, do me a favor. Dance with your husband at least once tonight. On the dance floor. Without killing anyone."

Dorian bit down on the inside of his mouth, trying to keep the laughter at bay. He could feel it pulling at his lips, trying to turn his severely disgruntled expression into an amused smile, and he simply couldn't have that. But as they emerged on the other side of the horses, the sight before them stole the hilarity from him faster than Cullen's frustrating allergy to answering questions and being straightforward.

"No," he balked immediately, stopping dead in the path so abruptly that Cullen bumped into him. "Absolutely not."

Among the horses were three animals that were distinctly  _not_  like the rest: an enormous elk with a rack of antlers so large that it practically gave Dorian a headache to look at it, the bizarre undead horse that had recently been gifted to the Inquisition and the Inquisitor had welcomed into Skyhold for no reason that anyone could fathom, and a large dracolisk with a mottled hide of black and gold. No imagination was necessary to figure out who the dracolisk was meant to deliver to the Winter Palace.

"Oh, come on," Mahanon said, giving him a subtle push that quickly became blatant when he refused to move. "It isn't  _that_  bad. I've ridden him before."

Dorian scowled rebelliously at him. "You can ride him again then."

"I think I'm supposed to ride the elk," he returned a tad sheepishly.

"A bit stereotypical, isn't it?" Dorian grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. "The Tevinter mage and a dracolisk. The elf Inquisitor and some overgrown halla. The wild barbarian and that... that thing. Why couldn't you just bring normal horses back to Skyhold like everybody else does?"

"Could've been worse," Mahanon muttered under his breath. "Could've been the nug."

Given Josephine's involvement in preparing for the procession, Dorian wouldn't put it past her to have made provisions for that ridiculous thing to have been brought along as well. "How do you know it isn't here for Leliana?"

Mahanon considered that a moment, then conceded his point with a nod. "I can't argue with you there." He looked toward the animals, almost as if he expected to see the giant hulking thing shuffling forward through the motley group. "Cullen doesn't to mind it."

Distracted by the dracolisk and the expectations that went along with it, Dorian hadn't noticed Cullen leaving his side to go greet the undead horse. But when he followed the direction of Mahanon's gaze, he saw him standing beside the thing, gently stroking its withered neck and murmuring to it, loudly enough to hear the low rumble of his voice but too softly to make out the words. The horse was flicking its tail leisurely back and forth and nudging at his other hand with its grotesquely skeletal mouth. Instead of withdrawing his hand away from it like a normal, sane person, Dorian heard him chuckle as if he actually  _enjoyed_  it and rubbed at its jaw.

_Only Cullen_ , he thought, with a mixture of fond indulgence and exasperation. Everyone else at Skyhold avoided the thing. Even the stablehands gave it a wide berth; it didn't eat and it didn't have much of a coat to groom, allowing them to avoid having to bother with it. Aside from Cullen, who had taken to spending time with the horse every day, the only person who voluntarily interacted with it was the horsemaster, though that had more to do with Dennet's commitment to the animals under his care than any real affection for the creature.

As Dorian watched, Selkor approached them. Normal horses had a tendency to shy away from him and seemed to only grudgingly tolerate him when he was present. This particular horse lowered its head and touched its bony nose—or the place where its nose would have been if it had had one—to the lion's in what was clearly a greeting. Whatever sentiment passed between them must have been pleasing to both parties, because Selkor sat down right there, the horse made an eerie noise that Dorian felt through his magic more than heard, and Cullen smiled as if he was presiding over a meeting between two warring clans that had just agreed to peace.

"Dorian?"

He glanced askance at Mahanon and found him looking at him with an expression that was equal parts hopeful and sheepishly mischievous. Immediately, wariness stole over him. "What?"

"How much are you going to hate me—"  _Oh no._  He didn't have to finish the question. Dorian already knew, with horrifying clarity, where it was headed. "—if I give that horse to him?"

Keeping company with a lion and an eagle was bad enough, and both of them at least looked like they were alive. Adding a horse that had been dead for so long that its body was desiccated and leathery where it wasn't simply bare bone was too much. Especially when that same horse had a rusty old sword jammed through its head. There wasn't anything subtle about it.

"You  _are_  a necromancer, after all," Mahanon continued, unapologetically wheedling now. "You really ought to have an undead steed carrying you into battle at the front of your undead horde." At the disgusted glare Dorian gave him, he added, smiling winningly, "For the look of the thing if nothing else."

He could have said no. Mahanon might have been the Inquisitor, but he was Dorian's friend before he was some mysterious, legendary figure. He'd seem Mahanon lose his trousers during a game of Wicked Grace. It was easy to say no to him. But if he was determined to foist the monstrosity off on them, he was enough of a shit to do it regardless of what Dorian said. Not only that, all it really took was one look at Cullen with the horse to know that he—and no doubt Selkor and Falkyr—would be happy to welcome it into their disturbing family.

"I hate you a great deal," Dorian growled under his breath, accepting the defeat as gracefully as he could.

Mahanon gave him a wide, disgustingly insufferable grin. "I'll even toss in the dracolisk."

Silently, Dorian glowered at him. And then lit his Maker-forsaken sash on fire.

* * *

The Inquisition's procession took the long way to the Winter Palace. Instead of skirting the edge of Halamshiral, they rode right through the center of it. Mahanon rode at the head of the column on his massive elk, posture straight and expression relaxed, like he'd been through the city so many time he could have navigated its streets with his eyes closed. Right beside him were his advisors, all three of them seated on impressive, albeit  _normal_ , horses, subtly guiding the Inquisitor through the number of roads, thoroughfares, and wide avenues. Dorian and Cullen rode behind them with the rest of the Inquisitor's inner circle, Falkyr soaring above them and Selkor keeping pace at the side of the undead horse. Hawke and Fenris, absorbed into the inner circle by virtue of who Hawke was more than his kinship with Carver or association with Varric, were back with their dwarven friend. Cassandra was back there too, instead of up front with the advisors, likely keeping an eye on the troublesome trio.

There weren't any problems on the way, however, and they reached the Winter Palace only a few minutes later than they were scheduled to arrive. That delay was entirely Dorian's fault, caused by the scramble to find another sash to replace the one he'd singed, but he wasn't the least bit remorseful about it. A minor upset was a negligible price to pay for being forced to endure an irritating lizard for the duration of his time with the Inquisition.

If the delay cost them anything in the eyes of the Orlesians, their entrance more than made up for it. As they rode into the outer courtyard, all the activity ceased. From arriving nobility down to guards and stablehands come to help with the horses, everyone stopped what they were doing to stare. First at the Inquisitor, and then, as they came into view, at Cullen and his entourage. They were still staring as the procession came to a halt and they dismounted. It likely didn't help with anyone's distraction that Falkyr, demonstrating a keen grasp of drama, dropped down out of the sky and alighted on Cullen's shoulder as soon as he was off the horse.

"A bit of a flourish with that cloak wouldn't be remiss," Dorian murmured as he moved to his side.

"Too late now," Cullen replied, humor evident in his eyes. "Falkyr will bite me if I unseat him."

They moved through the gate into the gardens just outside the palace, where they lingered while the Inquisitor spoke with Gaspard and endured some socially-enforced hobnobbing. Under none of the same restraints, Cullen and Dorian moved to a relatively isolated corner of the garden from which they could observe those milling about the grounds without being the center of attention themselves. At least, that was the plan. But the novelty of a half-naked man clothed in furs and accompanied by ferocious looking wild animals proved to be an even greater attraction than a Dalish elf with a magical hand who'd fallen ass-backwards into the leadership of possibly the most powerful organization in the world.

Although their faces were hidden by masks, making it difficult to catch them staring, Dorian could feel the Orlesians' eyes on them. Every move either of them made was seen by dozens of people and likely interpreted any number of ridiculously stupid ways. Cullen appeared to be ignoring it, neither remarking on being the subject of such scrutiny nor openly looking back at the gawkers. He simply stood there, back straight, expression so coolly aloof and untouchable that it probably would have made the Archon jealous, as regale as any king or queen might hope to be.

The animals, however, were not so detached. Falkyr was watching everyone from his perch on Cullen's shoulder, his head cocking and turning this way and that as if he were trying to determine who might make an easy target should he feel the urge to take wing. And Selkor, eschewing subtlety in a way that gave Dorian no end of proud satisfaction, jumped up onto the ornately carved stone bench beside them, sat down upon it, and blatantly stared at whichever Orlesian caught his fancy, the tip of his tail smacking against the stone.

No one was brave enough to approach them.

"I can't figure out whether it's you or the animals that are keeping them at bay," Dorian remarked quietly, slanting a subdued smirk up at him.

"We'll know the answer to that in a moment," Cullen replied, tipping his chin in the direction of the palace, where a crowd was slowly growing as the party finally started moving indoors.

By unspoken agreement, they waited there until Mahanon caught their eye from across the garden and nodded. As if he recognized the signal as clearly as his human counterparts, Falkyr launched himself skyward with a rustle of wings so loud that it caused everyone around them to glance over in surprise.  _Who knew they loved drama as much as me?_  Dorian thought, tamping down on a smile.  _Perhaps I'm rubbing off on them._

Unable to let himself be upstaged by beasts, Dorian turned to Selkor as they began walking and said conversationally, "Do  _try_  not to eat too many people while we're gone, hm?"

Maker bless him, Selkor responded with a delightfully wide yawn that showed off every one of his sharp teeth to great effect.

Stepping closer to Cullen, Dorian leaned toward him and whispered, "We really ought to smuggle a chicken or two out for him tonight. Poor thing." A sharp call echoed down from above them.  _Rebuked by a bird. What a travesty is this debacle I call a life._ "And for the eagle too, I suppose."

He caught the brief, barely perceptible twitch at the corner of Cullen's mouth at the same time he felt his hand press against the small of his back. That too was gone all too soon, though the heat of it inexplicably lingered as they entered the palace and queued up with the rest of the Inquisition for their formal announcement to the Empress. Which, Dorian discovered very quickly, seemed meant to serve as a trial of endurance.

The herald droned on and on, piling titles and honors upon each high-ranking guest until Dorian wondered if he would asphyxiate before he paused for breath. When a guest didn't come with a dozen distinguished or impressive titles, it was as if the man went out of his way to fabricate them. And in those regrettable instances where imagination failed him, he crammed as much unrelated flowery nonsense into the introduction as possible.

Morbidly curious to hear what stupidity he'd get saddled with, Dorian impatiently waited for his name to be called. And when it was, he was darkly, somewhat bleakly, amused that the herald, lacking anything of value to say about him, had to resort to speaking about his father to fill the time.  _Pity I didn't tell him I was married,_  he thought regretfully as he followed in Mahanon's wake.  _The uproar that would cause when rumors finally reached Tevinter would be priceless._  But he wouldn't be there to witness it, and if he was going to traumatize his entire family, he preferred to do it when he was present and could watch their dreams shatter.

He was so preoccupied by his increasingly unpleasant thoughts that he almost missed Cullen's introduction. Fortunately, his attention was caught by  _Wolf-Bane_  and he redirected his focus back to the announcement in time to hear Cullen proclaimed the Inquisition's beastmaster. It took everything in him to maintain a straight face and not burst out laughing. Even more difficult a feat was not glancing back at Cullen to see how he was faring. Mahanon, when Dorian reached him and shot a quick sideways glance his way, appeared to be biting back a smile and failing to conceal the amusement in his eyes.

The wait through all the introductions only made the struggle to suppress the hilarity worse. As much as he wanted to do it, Dorian couldn't let himself look at Cullen for fear he'd ruin his carefully constructed mien of haughtily cool indifference to the pomp and circumstance going on around him. Toward the end of the glowing recitation of Carver's many accomplishments as commander of the Inquisition and former glory as Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, a serving man wandered by bearing a tray of wine glasses filled with some type of dark colored liquid. In Tevinter, it would most certainly be wine, though the Maker only knew what Orlesians would deem fitting for such a glass. But Dorian didn't care what it was. More important than flavor was both the assumed alcohol content and the temporary distraction the fortuitous opportunity presented.

Casually redirecting his path, Dorian nonchalantly lifted two of the glasses from the tray and meandered over to Cullen's side.

"A drink, oh great beastmaster?" he asked with feigned deference, offering Cullen one of the glasses.

Snorting, Cullen took the glass and drained it in one long impressive swallow. "Even their wine is tasteless."

The Avvar were far from being connoisseurs of fine spirits, but Cullen had been with him long enough that he'd gotten to experience the difference between good wine and the swill his people preferred. Quite frequently, in fact, once they'd come to Skyhold and hadn't had to rely on a trader coming through the mountains with a rare bottle of some vaunted vintage. If even  _he_  thought it was tasteless...

Dorian cautiously tipped the rim of his glass to his lips and took a sip. As the robust flavor burst across his tongue, he rolled his eyes. "Now you're just being spiteful."

Cullen didn't deny it. He also didn't linger in the ballroom after the Inquisitor set them loose on the palace. Dorian watched him brush past a number of women who appeared poised to make a bid for his attention and slip out a side door at the far end of the room. Another server drifted by Dorian's field of view and after relieving him of a pair of glasses, he followed in Cullen's wake.

He found his husband out on a garden terrace, standing near the railing overlooking the mountains and looking up into the sky. There were partygoers out there as well, scattered about the terrace in little clusters, talking quietly to one another or listening to the music a mistral was playing in the corner. A number of them were staring curiously at Cullen's back and made no attempt to avert their eyes when Dorian looked at them directly.

"Is—" he began as he turned toward Cullen, only to be interrupted by the sudden, silent arrival of Falkyr.

The eagle landed on the railing by Cullen's elbow and the two of them shared one of those looks of communion that Dorian remained unable to translate. Around them, the noise on the terrace grew softer. Even the minstrel's music slowed to an absent-minded plucking of the strings on his lute.

"They've not yet discovered anything suspicious," Cullen murmured, his voice pitched low to prevent being overheard.

"He told you all that, did he?" Dorian asked lightly, looking across him to meet one of Falkyr's fierce, beady eyes.

No doubt Cullen could interpret a novel's worth of information from the way Falkyr opened and closed his beak, but to Dorian, it merely looked like he was hungry and wanted something to bite.  _It better not be me_ , Dorian thought firmly, just in case whatever lurked behind that eye was listening in on his thoughts.  _I'm neither for eating nor biting_.

Perhaps it was just his imagination attributing familiar responses to the alien thoughts and reactions of an animal, but for an instant, he was certain that the eagle gave him the same sort of amused, disbelieving look that someone who knew of his relationship with Cullen might.

Falkyr took flight a moment later, disappearing into the darkness as abruptly and silently as he'd arrived. In his absence, Cullen turned toward Dorian and leaned an elbow on the railing. "They'll keep looking and alert us to anything they find."

"I'm glad you speak Eagle," Dorian murmured, handing over one of the glasses. "Otherwise we'd be even more in the dark than we are already."

Taking the glass, Cullen looked down into it and sighed mournfully. "This is more of the same, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid they haven't any Avvar vintages on hand," Dorian replied, touching the rim of his glass to Cullen's before taking a healthy sip.

Cullen took a drink as well, somewhat larger than Dorian's, though this time he didn't empty the glass. "They are like hunters, watching me from the shadows."

He didn't need to ask who  _they_  were. "I'd wager a small fortune that most of them haven't ever seen one of your people, much less someone like  _you._ "

That got a scoff. "I am not so different from my people."

Dorian stared at him, trying to decide if that was an attempt at a joke. From Cullen's somber, almost pensive expression, it didn't appear that it was. "Cullen..."  _How do I say this without giving offense?_ "If the rest of your people were like you, I daresay the Avvar might control all of Thedas." When Cullen snorted, he added loftily, "And quite frankly, you make everyone but me look terribly homely."

It wasn't as though Cullen was unaware of how he looked. He knew. Dorian had experienced Cullen deliberately using his sex appeal to seduce him too many times to ever believe that he was oblivious to it. But the value he placed on his appearance wasn't proportionate to his attractiveness. It was almost as if it was just another tool for him. A favored one, yes, but not so important that he'd be devastated by its loss. The way he tended to carry on, it seemed as if he'd barely notice. Dorian couldn't begin to understand it.

Cullen gave him one of those slightly condescending looks that usually preceded some lecturing Avvarism about the seasons and the mountains and how lowlanders were bloody idiots. Strangely, it wasn't any more insulting now than it ever was. "A comely face does not put food on the table of a starving family or protect the hold from invaders. It does not see the people through the worst of Hakkon's wrath or turn aside an arrow before it kills a comrade. Good deeds, wise leadership, strength, speed, knowledge, the favor of the gods—these are the qualities that make one desirable."

Noble words, and perhaps it was an even nobler sentiment, for Dorian knew that he wasn't simply parroting advice that he'd been taught as a child. Cullen lived that optimistic rubbish every day. And he certainly had a valid point about the true measure of an individual's worth. But Dorian wasn't in the mood to let him have this one without a modest fight.

"Then it's not my astonishing good looks that appeal to you, but rather my sharp mind and magical prowess?" Dorian challenged playfully, hiking up an elegantly arched eyebrow.

With no regard to the dozens of eyes surreptitiously watching them from around the little garden, Cullen cupped his hand against the side of Dorian's neck and nudged his chin up with the heel of his hand. "Stunning though you are, I would desire you no less were you to look otherwise than you do now. You have always been more to me than how you appear."

That was  _entirely_  too sentimental for an audience of nosy Orlesians. Clearing his throat, Dorian replied lightly, "If you think it was your cliff-climbing abilities that caught my eye, Cullen Wolf-Bane, you're sorely mistaken."

A small, yet wholly mischievous grin stole across Cullen's mouth. "Aye," he agreed easily, without a hint of the resentment or hurt feelings Dorian would have expected from anyone else had he failed to respond to heartfelt declarations in a similar fashion. "I remember where your eyes kept straying."

It wouldn't do to laugh outright. The evil magister couldn't be seen to be openly enjoying himself and having fun, else whatever would the people think?  _Perhaps I'll save that one for later. The night's too young to terrorize them all already._ He muffled the laughter into a low chuckle and tipped his head forward to murmur into Cullen's ear. "I do so hate to wound your ego, but wasn't your cock, either."

Not  _alone_ , anyway. Cullen's magnificent bare chest certainly contributed to his distraction.

The corner of Cullen's mouth rose higher, his silent laughter clear in his eyes, but before he had the opportunity to make whatever entertaining comment it was no doubt going to be, the sound of someone clearing their throat entirely too close to them interrupted him.

Stepping back, Dorian turned to face a masked Orlesian in a dress so voluminous that it passed straight through  _formal_  and ended up on the wrong side of  _overzealous_. How she moved around in that thing was as much of a mystery as how she'd managed to get so close to them without either of them being aware of her approach.

"Forgive the intrusion, Magister Pavus," she began, not sounding terribly apologetic for interrupting them. "I've a business proposal I wished to discuss with you."

_Magister now, is it?_  Dorian was no stranger to flattery. It was a commonly traded currency in Tevinter; most valuable when it was wielded by a master, too subtly for its true intent to be noticed, and least so when it was loosely held in the fumbling hands of an amateur. From the smoothness of her voice, she thought herself the former, though her words proclaimed her the latter. After all, the herald who had announced him to the court hadn't made a mistake with his titles. Either she thought him too empty-headed to remember, insulting in itself, or she believed him so vain and dull-witted that he wouldn't recognize the clumsy attempt as what it was. And that was arguably the more offensive interpretation.

He could have corrected her, a large part of him wanted to do it, but after a quick internal debate, he decided to play a longer game than that. "Go on," he offered, with an expansive wave of the hand holding his wineglass.

There were a number of possibilities, ranging from something as pedestrian as trade routes to a significantly more sensational inquiry into the workings of the Venatori. It was difficult for him to believe that anyone who truly wished to align themselves with Corypheus would be quite so outspoken about it, but one never knew with Orlesians. Chances were high that they didn't comprehend the true danger he and his ilk posed and simply thought of him as a scandalous novelty that would enhance their own petty machinations. So he was hoping for the best and expecting the worst when he saw her eyes briefly shift from his face to just beyond his shoulder.

_Ah_ , he thought, both relieved that he wouldn't need to go hunt down Mahanon and somewhat disappointed that he hadn't just inadvertently uncovered a lead that would help them wrap up this mission.  _This isn't going to end well for her_.

"If you would be willing to part with your bodyguard for an hour or two, I could compensate you quite handsomely for his time." Due to the elaborate mask she wore, it wasn't possible for him to see her mouth, but from the satisfied tone of her voice, she was smiling in anticipation of his agreement.

Even suspecting that the proposition had something to do with Cullen, Dorian was still blindsided by her gross misunderstanding of the situation. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are among allies," she said, waving her wrist as if she could dismiss any threats that might be posed to him just as easily. "Surely he will not be missed for so brief a time."

_Well,_  he thought, darkly amused despite himself.  _I suppose I've got to give her credit for her boldness._ Expecting a magister to whore out his servant for the right price was an attitude befitting one of Tevinter's elite. He hadn't thought to encounter that level of audacious entitlement outside of Minrathous. Not even there in the Winter Palace.

It was so surprising—not simply that Cullen might be mistaken as his  _bodyguard_ for the Maker's sake, but also that anyone capable of rational thought might possibly think him willing to  _share_ —that Dorian didn't have a response ready to volley back at her. There were a number that would provide him some entertainment, causing him to waver over which would give him the greatest sense of vindictive satisfaction. Thankfully, the lapse was only momentary. Cullen spoke into the silence almost as soon as the sound of her voice faded.

"You cannot buy the attentions of the Avvar, lowlander," he growled, the sound so low and rough that Dorian had to remind himself that he was too busy being offended to start getting aroused.

The woman sniffed. "This is Orlais. Everything is for sale here." Her attention slid back to Dorian. "I hadn't thought the magisters of Tevinter suffered rebellion. How fascinating. I'll double your asking price."

Far too easily, Dorian could see the exchange devolving into bloodshed. There was only so much disrespect Cullen would tolerate, and his patience grew noticeably shorter when it was directed at Dorian. He didn't need to glance back at Cullen to know that his temper was starting to shuck off the restraints he put on it. He could hear it in his voice, feel it in the growing tension in the atmosphere around them. Killing Orlesians didn't trouble him in the least, though he suspected that there were be unpleasant repercussions for the Inquisition if its people started slaughtering their way through the peace talk's guest list.

"Not Cullen, I'm afraid," Dorian chimed in, affecting an apologetic smile that was laced with steel. "I'm not the sort of man who's inclined to share." He could well imagine the fantasies she was entertaining. Likely half the people at the ball had similar ones. And not a bloody one of them was going to lay a hand on  _his_  man. "And between you and me, I doubt you'd be capable of handling him."

"I see," she replied curtly. "Good evening to you, then."

It took every bit of his self-control not to light the back of her dress on fire as she made her retreat. There were torches and a scattering of candles placed at strategic locations throughout the garden, providing the proper amount of illumination needed to prevent unfortunate falls over the edge of the terrace. And the majority of Orlesians were wearing a ridiculous amount of fabric, some of which was contorted into unnatural shapes and contours. Accidents could absolutely happen.

Dorian took a deep breath, then slowly released it and as much of his affronted indignation as he could. It didn't work. He still wanted to set the bitch on fire.

"That will not be the last offer you receive tonight," Cullen murmured, sounding as put out and disgruntled as Dorian felt.

He turned back to him, and as he did, his gaze fell on the amulet hanging from Cullen's neck. It had done its job of marking him as belonging to Dorian rather well. Just not in the manner that he had intended for it to do.  _I probably should have foreseen this would be the result. Why would anyone in the south believe anything else of me?_  Of course they would assume a barbarian was his slave. He should have realized that far earlier than now.

"I suppose that's my fault," he replied, genuinely apologetic. Expecting to see justifiable disappointment in Cullen's eyes, he raised his own and met them. "I meant to make a statement with that—" He tipped his chin toward the amulet. "—but it seems I've made the wrong one. Forgive me."

Cullen gently pushed his hand away when he reached up to unclasp the chain. "I am yours. Let none mistake that."

Now that he recognized his error, he wasn't willing to let it go. Cullen didn't deserve to be treated like a slave. "Yes, but they think that you're—"

Closing his hand around Dorian's fingers, Cullen pulled them down, far away from the source of the problem. "I care not for how these lowlanders perceive me. Let them believe what they wish." A sharp smile flickered across his mouth. "It will be to their detriment."

_I don't deserve you._  Yet if there was such a person who might actually be worthy of Cullen's love, Dorian would be damned if he would be willing to give him up. "I don't think the Inquisitor would appreciate us killing them."

"Who don't I want you killing?" came Mahanon's amused voice from behind him.

"Orlesians," Dorian replied, as he twisted around to face him. "They're looking to buy Cullen from me for a few hours."

Mahanon's eyebrows rose in surprise. "What?"

"They wish to sate their curiosity about the sexual prowess of the Avvar," Cullen remarked dryly. "And they believe me a slave."

Silence settled over them as Mahanon took a minute to digest that. "Well," he said brightly, a vicious edge to his smile. "I was just coming to see if the two of you would join me for a little, ah, discreet exploration of the palace grounds. If you want to kill a few of them while we do it, I'll pretend I didn't see it."

* * *

More than a few Orlesians fell during their impromptu adventure, though none of them happened to be any of the people who were making their desire to bed Cullen obvious. Dispatching miscreants and troublemakers was still rather cathartic, however, and by the time they returned to the main hall, Dorian felt less like burning the whole palace down in a fit of pique.

Unfortunately for the Inquisition, they did not discover the identity of the assassin. Instead, the plot had gotten murkier than it already was by the addition of Briala, the elven ambassador and former lover of the Empress. They had encountered her on their jaunt through the palace, suspiciously knowledgeable about what was going on and full of theories about the danger Orlais faced that might have been accurate or might have been an attempt to mislead them.  She  _claimed_  to be trying to protect Celene, but a jilted lover with reason to hold a grudge and personal interests that extended beyond the palace could have easily been working against her. Especially considering that she was both Orlesian and a spy. Only a fool would take what she said at face value.

"I'm going to check in with the others," Mahanon told them as they approached the ballroom. He looked a bit frazzled; there was a tightness at the corner of his eyes that wasn't usually there and too much tension in the way he was holding himself. "Let them know what we found. See if they have any ideas."

"Good luck," Dorian replied, inwardly grateful that he wasn't the one who had to make the call with such limited information and an ever narrowing window of time in which to do it. "We'll be here if you need us."

With a grateful smile and a nod, Mahanon headed inside, leaving Dorian and Cullen standing out in the antechamber. There were dozens of people out there with them, milling about or talking to one another in small groups. There were also, he was pleased to note, a number of servants carrying trays laden with drinks circulating through the crowd. After all the excitement and exertion they'd experienced clearing out the infestation of mercenaries and traitors in the palace, Dorian thought they'd earned themselves a drink or four.

"Shall we—" he began hopefully, only to trail off into silence as Cullen grabbed him none too gently by the upper arm and tugged him sideways toward the edge of the antechamber.

Mystified, Dorian nevertheless obliged him and allowed himself to be pulled through the nearest archway. Cullen remained silent as they walked down the corridor, moving further away from the bulk of the ball's attendees at a pace that wasn't exactly  _fast_  but wasn't precisely leisurely either. Dorian glanced at him, hoping to glean a hint about what was going on from his expression, but he didn't return the look and his face was so blank that it wasn't possible to discern anything from his profile. His grip on his arm remained firm, though not painfully so. If he made an actual effort, Dorian knew that he would be able to break it.

Curiosity prevented him from doing anything to bring the odd almost-march to a halt and trust, damnably inconvenient thing that it was, kept his mouth shut when he would have liked to have been peppering Cullen with questions. Eventually, he knew, he would understand. Though considering who he was dealing with, he couldn't be certain when that would be.

They were passing fewer and fewer people. The servants with their ample supply of liquid refreshment were depressingly far behind them and from the looks of it, most of the guests preferred to be in the vicinity of the court rather than scattered throughout the palace.  _Maker only knows why_. As gaudy and offensive to the eye as the decor was, it was actually rather nice to be away from the constant scrutiny and whispering gossip.  _Like a breath of fresh air._

Or it would have been, if Cullen hadn't been acting so strangely. It was difficult to savor the comparable solitude and illusion of privacy while being hustled down the corridor. He would have preferred a bit more conversation and a relaxed stroll. If he were being truly honest, some minor display of intimacy wouldn't have been remiss either.

Cullen took a sharp, unexpected left, nearly yanking Dorian off of his feet in the process. The graceless stumble that ensued as he hurriedly tried to regain his balance was enough to shake him out of his perplexed complacency. And once his willingness to humor Cullen's behavior evaporated, he wanted answers.

"All right," he demanded testily, only absently taking note of the room—empty of people, possibly a study of some sort, dark save for the faint light from the night sky coming in through the large window at the far end, the hulking shadowy shapes of overly ornate bookshelves and furniture—as Cullen reached around him to shut the door. "What's going—"

Too fast to immediately comprehend it, Cullen's lips were pressing against his own, kissing the words out of his mouth. Dorian's thoughts stuttered to a halt, too confounded by the abrupt shift in tone of the moment to quickly catch up. By the time it did, Cullen had lifted him off the floor, his hands tightly gripping Dorian's hips, and was moving them deeper into the room. The thought that he ought to perhaps say... _something_  meandered its way across the surface of his mind, but before he could sort out what that was or what he meant to accomplish by saying anything at all, Cullen was sucking on his tongue and he stopped trying to think at all.

Folding his arms around Cullen's shoulders to take some of his own weight, Dorian kissed him back, hard and intensely focused, as if he could make up for his lapse in attention if he put enough effort into it. Likely it didn't matter. Cullen's ardor hadn't abated while he'd struggled to make sense of what was going on. If anything, Dorian's response only inflamed his passion, and in remarkably short time, he felt breathless and lightheaded from lack of air.

Kissing Cullen took precedence over breathing. Dorian tried to ignore the discomfort in his chest as he chased Cullen's tongue with his own and bit impatiently at his lips when it occurred to him that his hands were still firmly in place and not roaming across his body the way they ought to have been. But eventually, the aching in his lungs forced him to lean back and take a quick, gasping breath. He moved in before he was finished inhaling, not wishing to waste an instant, and started to draw up his legs with the vague intention of wrapping them around Cullen's waist. Before he managed it, however, he was dropped unceremoniously on something hard and unyielding.

And Cullen, duplicitous bastard that he was,  _took a step away from him_  while Dorian sat there on whatever the Void it was, staring after him in thwarted, abandoned bewilderment.

_What are you doing_  collided with  _where are you going_  somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, resulting in an unhelpful groan that made no attempt whatsoever to be words. There was enough ambient light to see Cullen's face, but it wasn't sufficient to get a clear read of his expression. His eyes looked like bottomless pits of darkness and his lips, slightly parted, were swollen and slick with saliva.

_Get over here and finish what you've started_ , Dorian wanted to demand, but his throat was so dry that he couldn't get it working properly. He tried to swallow, tried to wet his lips when that didn't work, all to no avail. Cullen watched him, motionless but for his eyes tracking every bob of his throat and flick of his tongue like something wild and starving. It burrowed under Dorian's skin, that look, and burned through his veins like fire, until it felt like he couldn't breathe for how badly he wanted him.

And still Cullen stood there, aggravatingly just outside Dorian's reach.

" _Cullen_ ," Dorian rasped, the dam finally breaking in such a torrent of impatient frustration that it forced that single word through his lips.

What might have followed, he would never know, for Cullen moved then. Forward—thank the fucking Maker—that step he'd retreated before suddenly dropping to his knees. Dorian exhaled a long, shaky breath as anticipation sparked like conjured lightning along his nerves, prickling his skin and hardening his cock so completely that his hideous trousers became much too tight. Forgotten was the ball as Cullen ran his hands over Dorian's thighs and shoved the bottom of the jacket up and out of the way. Forgotten was the impending assassination of Orlais' Empress as his fingers reached the lacing and deftly began to untie them. Forgotten was the threat of annihilation at the hands of Corypheus' army if the Inquisitor made the wrong choice that night as Cullen's hand closed around his cock and drew it out of the confines of the trousers.

All Dorian knew was the heat of his palm, the roughness of his skin, the chill of the air, and the heavy, predatory weight of Cullen's gaze as he watched him struggle for another breath. The solidity of the surface he'd been deposited upon pressing against his ass and the coolness of it as his hands sought an unobtrusive place to rest. The slide of the soles of his boots across the smooth floor, affording him no purchase for the leverage he wanted. Because Cullen was watching him again, poised to move, his hand around his cock, but still. So damnably still.

"Cullen,  _please,_ " escaped Dorian's mouth before he realized he meant to say it. In the silence of the room, it sounded desperate instead of impatient. Pleading instead of commanding. Perhaps he ought to have been embarrassed by it, but he hadn't the wit to care.

Cullen was moving, leaning forward without further hesitation. There was nothing tentative about the press of his lips against the head of Dorian's cock. Nothing teasing in the way they parted around him and took him inside the hot cavern of Cullen's mouth.

Caught in the wash of sensation that flooded through him, Dorian let his head fall forward, nearly closing his eyes against the onslaught. But when it immediately vanished, he opened them fully and looked, startled and wanting, at Cullen. He'd pulled back, though his hand still gripped the base of Dorian's shaft.

After a moment, after he was certain Dorian was  _seeing_  him and his utter, inexplicable lack of movement, he said simply, "Look at me."

Dorian opened his mouth to agree, and at this point there was little he wouldn't have agreed to if it meant Cullen's mouth around his cock again, but nothing came out. His throat was even drier now. He nodded instead, not having the wherewithal to fight with it. To his horror, Cullen merely lifted his eyebrows.

_Damn you_. Cursing at him was too difficult a feat to accomplish. The best Dorian could manage, after another valiant attempt to moisten his throat, was a harsh, " _Yes._ "

Cullen took him back into his mouth so quickly that he nearly cried out. Only a lifetime spent sneaking stolen moments of pleasure here and there allowed him to smother the sound into a strangled gasp. It wouldn't have mattered anywhere else, but no matter how centered he was in the present, no matter how little he cared for what was happening beyond that room, some tiny part of him knew that if he made too much noise, they would be interrupted. Just like that part of him knew that that could  _not_  be allowed to happen.

There was no easing him into it. No gradual build to an uncontrolled frenzy. Cullen flattened his tongue against the underside of Dorian's cock, tightened his lips around his shaft, and began to move: down as far as he could comfortably go, then up to the head, where he sucked just for an instant before plunging back down again. Determined to keep his eyes on him lest he do the intolerable and stop again, Dorian hung on to whatever he was sitting on and forced his eyes to remain open and focused on Cullen's face. He would have preferred more light—no matter how often he witnessed it, the sight of Cullen sucking his cock was too erotic to be obscured by darkness—but what meager illumination existed was just enough that what he  _could_  see was nearly as arousing as the way it felt.

As he picked up speed, as the rhythmic motion melted into Cullen fucking him with his mouth, Dorian's control slipped. It wasn't enough to be touched, wonderful though that was. He needed to be touching. He needed to more than accept what was being done for him, limited as that action might by necessity be. A passive partner in pleasure had never been a particularly achievable feat for Dorian, even at his most hedonistic and selfish. With Cullen, it was well nigh impossible.

By pure dumb luck, he buried his hand in the unadorned side of Cullen's hair. Long, free-flowing strands twisted easily around his fingers, giving him something to hold onto that was more satisfying than the edge of the... table?

"I would..." Why he tried speaking, he would never know. A sharp spike of pleasure shot through him, causing him to interrupt himself with an abrupt intake of breath before he could get halfway through the sentence. "Ah, conjure a flame to—to better see you by, only..."

Maker, how he longed to arch up and chase the heat, chase the friction. Pinned like he was between the table and Cullen's mouth, such movement was beyond him. Unconsciously, he tightened his hold on Cullen's hair. Where had he been going with whatever he'd been saying? He barely recalled.

Dorian tried to laugh. It came out sounding like a breathless sigh. "I'm afraid I'd lose control. Set your hair on fire." Which might not be a novel occurrence when viewed from the entirety of his life, but it would be the first time it happened to Cullen. Perhaps it made him sentimental to hope to avoid such a thing; if it was, he figured he could live with it.

When the vibration of Cullen's low chuckle tingled up the length of Dorian's cock and lodged itself deep in his gut, he almost lost both his resolve and his control. It was too much while simultaneously being not  _quite_  enough. Somehow, he would never figure out how he avoided it, he managed not to set anything alight. But he couldn't catch his breath anymore and after a momentary struggle, he ceased trying altogether. Loud as his short, rapidly panting gasps sounded in the quiet room, they probably couldn't be heard out in the corridor. And if they were, he wasn't of a mind to care anymore.

Too soon, he felt himself drawing close to climax. The constant sight of Cullen in his ridiculously appealing costume, the heightened sensitivity that came with the physical exertion of battle and the use of his magic, even the conflicting emotions of pride and jealousy at the covetous way the Orlesians watched Cullen; all of it combined to make him extraordinarily sensitive to what Cullen was doing to him. And because he never tired or paused to catch his breath, there was no opportunity to let his body calm down.

Dorian certainly didn't mind. He greedily wanted the release far too much to care about prolonging it. There would be time for more after their work was done.

A sharp jerk on the lock of hair tangled in his fingers was the best warning he could give before his orgasm tore through him. Cullen didn't move away, just swallowed him down and let him spend himself deep in his throat. Only when he was certain Dorian was finished did he pull off of his cock, agonizingly slow for his hypersensitive flesh, and settle back on his heels. Mind too pleasure-numbed to form coherent thought, Dorian could do nothing but stare at him. Cullen held his eyes as, quite deliberately, he licked his lips, seconds before a smugly satisfied smirk swept over them.

"That shall sate me for the moment," he told him, intoning the words as if they were a lead in to a dire warning. "But before this night is done, I mean to have you completely."

It wasn't possible for him to become aroused again so soon. Dorian knew that to be true. His body had limitations that had grown more pronounced with age, yet just for an instant, he felt the faintest flicker of it deep inside him, like an ember too stubborn to let itself be extinguished. 

Unable to help himself, Dorian murmured a challenge, "Why wait?"

Although he couldn't see clearly to know for certain, Dorian was sure that Cullen was hard. Hard, full of lust, and probably as desperate to find release as Dorian had been. Issuing a challenge like that to a man who never backed down from anything should have elicited immediate results, but Cullen merely gave one of those dark, throaty chuckles and rose effortlessly to his feet.

"We've a task yet to do." Dorian saw a flash of his stark white teeth as he smiled. "And I want no interruption from those who might hear you."

The tease was obvious.  _Such assumptions about your prowess. Are you certain you'll be able to fulfill those implied promises?_  But his throat had gone so dry he couldn't have forced the words out if he'd tried.

Cullen held out his hand. "Come."

_I already have_.  _I rather thought you'd noticed._  Dorian studied him for a moment, trying to search his face and listen for sounds from outside the room at the same time. He saw nothing there that might give him a clue toward Cullen's potential receptiveness to the idea coalescing in his mind and heard nothing that suggested that he ought to set himself to rights with haste. With nothing to discourage him and the temptation too great to ignore, he decided that his minor dilemma was a non-issue.

Instead of taking the offered hand, Dorian quickly tucked his now soft cock back into his trousers and laced them up. Making allowances for Orlesians wasn't high on his list of priorities, but if one happened to wander into the room, he preferred to keep what might be seen to a minimum. Cullen hadn't retracted his hand while he'd been busy. As soon as he was finished tying the laces, Dorian took hold of his wrist and gave it an insistent tug toward him. Despite having just tried to get him to move in the opposite direction, Cullen obediently stepped forward.

"You truly think me capable of leaving you wanting?" Dorian asked, finding his voice again.

His soft snort dismissed the question as surely as if he'd spoken the words of disagreement out loud. Perhaps thinking that he needed to be clear lest his meaning be misunderstood, he added a moment later, "I want for nothing with you, Dorian."

Only Cullen could switch seamlessly from unrestrained passion so raw that he literally dragged the object of his desire into an empty room in the middle of a crowded ball for the sole purpose of sucking him off to heartfelt declarations of adoration so genuine and previously beyond his grasp that they made Dorian's chest ache. Even more astonishing was that more than a year on, none of it had changed. He hadn't grown bored or distant, he wasn't taking Dorian's companionship or love for granted, and never once had he given him cause to suspect that his attention was wandering elsewhere. In all of those unguarded instances when Dorian caught him watching him, Cullen still looked at him like he was the only person that he saw. More importantly, perhaps, was that he was looking at him like he was the only person he  _wanted_ to see.

For a man from Tevinter who never thought he might experience true unabashed passion—to say nothing of love—from another man, it was the stuff of dreams and bard's tales. And no matter how adamantly he might deny it, it never failed to move him.

"See that no one hears  _you_ ," Dorian told him gruffly, content to pretend that it was the lingering aridity of this throat that so distorted his voice.

Unwilling to give Cullen the opportunity to balk, Dorian released his wrist, swatted the swath of fur out of the way with one hand, and pressed the palm of his other directly over his cock. As expected, it was hard, straining the leather that kept it trapped against his groin. Cullen stiffened with a sharp hiss. Dorian tipped his head back to get a better look at his face and smiled a wide, triumphant grin.

"What was it you said?" Very slowly, wanting Cullen to feel every exquisite ounce of pressure, Dorian contracted his fingers and squeezed his shaft. "You wished to wait?"

If he sincerely didn't want to proceed, he could have very easily pushed Dorian's hand away. That he didn't do anything of the sort spoke volumes.

"I suppose we could." Dorian let him go, then crooked his index finger and dragged his fingernail over the leather from the base of his cock to the tip. Cullen went so still that it looked like he'd stopped breathing. "If that's  _truly_ what you want to do."

He waited a moment, let the silence really sink into the room, before he realized that Cullen wasn't mulling over his reply or fighting to breathe at a manageable pace. He was doing it on purpose. Baiting him.

Gently, oh so very gently, Dorian flicked the tip of his finger at the sensitive spot on the underside of his cock, right where the shaft met the head. Cullen's jerk was barely noticeable, but Dorian was watching for it, waiting to see it. "That was a question, Cullen. It requires an answer."

For the span of half a dozen heartbeats, Cullen gave no response. Then, in a voice so low and dark that it sent a shiver down Dorian's spine, he murmured, "Test me not, husband mine, lest you wake a beast you cannot control."

That ought not to have been nearly as arousing as it was.  _Damn the man_ , Dorian thought, absently licking his lips.  _Upstaging me so. It would serve him right if I let him suffer through the rest of the night unsatisfied._ Even in the privacy of his mind, he knew it to be the most pointless of empty threats. Neither the end of the world nor an army of archdemons and darkspawn could have kept him away from him.

"You aren't any fun at all," Dorian grumbled in mock disappointment, as he plucked loose the laces of Cullen's trousers.

"Aren't I?" he returned rhetorically, his tone practically dripping with smug superiority. It was dreadfully unattractive. Dorian didn't know how he put up with him.

"No." Freeing Cullen's cock, he gave it a leisurely stroke, testing his reach. It wasn't sufficient. In order to maintain a proper pace, he was going to need to get closer. Spreading his legs to make room between them, Dorian gave Cullen a light little pull. The result was immediate: he shuffled forward until his thighs were nearly pressed against the edge of the table. "Not even a little bit. Hold that damn fur out of the way, would you please?" Dorian smacked at the loincloth with the back of his free hand. "Entertaining as it would be to scandalize the Orlesians, I'd rather not parade about the palace with evidence of our escapades all over your clothes."

Cullen gave a low laugh under his breath. "Awfully demanding tonight."

Dorian smirked up at him. "You haven't experienced the half of it."

And for the moment, he wouldn't. As enjoyable as it was to tease him, Cullen was right. They couldn't indulge themselves the way Dorian would have liked. They  _did_  have a responsibility to Mahanon, the Inquisition, and the rest of the world. Sex, as wild as it likely would have been, was not more important than preventing Corypheus from amassing further power. And all jests aside, there was a rather clear line between behaving in an endearingly scandalous manner and being an outright embarrassment. The former was appealing. The latter merely lived down to his family's expectations.

Almost as if he could divine Dorian's thoughts, Cullen nodded. "Later." Was it his imagination or did he actually sound  _reassuring_? "We've time enough."

Not about to let Cullen lose the edge of his arousal in a misguided attempt to ease concerns that didn't exist, Dorian pumped his fist, effectively derailing the conversation. Cullen inhaled hard and dropped one of his hands to Dorian's shoulder to stabilize himself.

_Much better_. In the interest of keeping Cullen's attention focused in the proper place and his own thoughts from venturing into places better left alone, Dorian added cheekily, "So get on with it, yes? As you wish."

He would have liked to have lingered over it. Rushed fumblings in the dark were a thing of the past and Dorian was happy to leave all of that well and truly behind him. But in the interest of rejoining the ball before it was over, he set a purposeful rhythm up and down the entire length of Cullen's shaft. It took only a few passes for that hand resting on his shoulder to start gripping and Dorian took his cue from the strength of it. While it remained relatively lax, he maintained his speed, but when he started to feel fingernails digging into his skin through the thick fabric of the jacket, he picked up the pace.

Cullen let him control it for considerably longer than he anticipated, the only indications of his mounting pleasure the tightness of his grip and the quickness of his breathing. But the closer he got, the more difficult it was for him to stand still, and before too long he was rocking his hips in time with the movement of Dorian's hand. Had there been more light to see by, he would have been able to guess at Cullen's proximity to orgasm from his face. In the dark, he had to judge by the way he moved and the sound of his breathing, neither of which was an especially accurate indicator.

There was no help for it. He was going to have to dispense with mystique and the illusion of possessing unparalleled skill and  _ask._

"Tell me when you're close," Dorian said, salvaging his pride by framing it like a command.

A low grunt was all the response he got, though he took it as a compliment. If Cullen was forgoing actual words, it meant that he was enjoying himself too much to bother expending the effort to speak. Unsurprising, since Dorian was significantly more talented with his hands than whoever he might have dallied with prior to their meeting, yet gratifying nonetheless.

Shortly thereafter, just as his forearm was beginning to burn from the exertion, Cullen muttered roughly, "Close."

Humming in acknowledgment, Dorian grabbed a hold of his hip with his free hand to keep him still and leaned forward to take his cock into his mouth. Because he couldn't see very well, the transition from cool air and a warm hand to a hot mouth and a wet tongue wasn't as smooth as he would have liked, but he doubted that Cullen noticed the slight hesitation as he aligned himself as best he could to pull it off. Fortunately for his spontaneity, the darkness proved to be just as much of a benefit as it was an obstacle. It allowed him to take Cullen by surprise, evident in the strangled gasping sound he made as Dorian's lips closed around him and the uncontrolled jerk of his hips that plunged his cock deeper into his mouth.

Smothering the urge to cough, Dorian relaxed into it as much as he was able. A moment later, however, before he'd even gotten a chance to really  _do_  anything, Cullen's grip on his shoulder grew painful and he came with a moan so low it was difficult to hear. His cock pulsed against his tongue; an instant later, warm, salty come filled his mouth. Swallowing it lest it dribble out of his mouth and get caught in his mustache or drip onto his jacket, Dorian held him there until he'd finished, then sucked and licked the remaining droplets away. Only when he was certain there wouldn't be any embarrassing mishaps, he let him go and sat back.

Just in time, too, because Cullen bent down and kissed him so fiercely that it startled him. Dorian was most certainly  _not_  grinning like a fool when Cullen pulled away a short time later. Any suspicion that he might have been was solely the fault of the bad lighting and Cullen's overactive, ridiculously uncivilized imagination.

"And you're  _absolutely_  sure you wish to return to the ball?" Dorian joked, as Cullen took him by the hands and drew him up off the table and onto his feet. "I promise I won't be disappointed if you say no."

"Duty demands we attend the Inquisitor," Cullen replied, though his voice was too fondly affectionate for his sense of responsibility to be a terrible disappointment.

Sniffing in feigned affront, Dorian tapped his finger against Cullen's bare chest. "Duty also demands that you attend to your husband's every insatiable desire once we’re done here.”

Steering him toward the door with a hand against his back, Cullen leaned in, brushed his lips against the shell of his ear, and said softly, "When do I not?"

_He's got me there_. Not wanting to admit it, Dorian hummed noncommittally and casually opened the door. The corridor was empty. And bright. Much too bright after so long in the dark. Squinting slightly against the glare, he paused at the threshold, listening for the footsteps of an approaching witness. Hearing nothing, he stepped out, blinked a few times as he straightened his clothes, and turned to give Cullen a critical once-over.

His hair was a bit mussed, but as that was the natural state of it and no rational person could in good faith believe that a barbarian's hair would be stylishly coiffed, Dorian suspected that he was the only one who would notice. The ubiquitous loincloth hung so perfectly centered between his legs that it looked like someone had taken the time to position it. There were no telling streaks of white on his skin or clothes. Neither his hairline or any other part of him appeared sweaty.

_It figures. Of course he'd emerge from an orgiastic interlude looking as though he's just been sitting on his hideous throne relaxing for hours._  It would be impressive if it weren't quite so enviable. Not even someone as poised as Dorian could manage to look that effortlessly perfect regardless of what he'd just been doing.

Quickly, he cast a glance down either end of the corridor. Still empty. "How do I look?" he asked Cullen, lifting his arms a few inches away from his body.

Cullen's gaze roamed over him like a physical touch, lingering here and there whenever some part of Dorian's body caught his attention. Eventually, his eyes made it back to his face and he lifted an eyebrow. Without waiting for a response to that silent inquiry, he drawled, "Like a sumptuous feast laid out for a starving man."

_Oh, for fuck's sake._ No Pavus out of adolescence ever blushed. One might become flushed from exertion, illness, extreme temperature, or a strong swell of anger, but blushing was the purview of children, foolish romantics, and those with shame. Dorian was neither a child nor burdened with a sense of shame, and as he'd told Varric at least a hundred times, he was most certainly  _not_  a romantic. Which meant that he wasn't experiencing a pang of sentimental rubbish at moment. He was just flustered by Cullen's refusal to take the question seriously.

"I  _meant,_ is it obvious from looking at me what we were just doing?" he clarified, lowering his voice so that if someone happened to venture in their direction, he wouldn't be overheard.

Something skittered across Cullen's face too fast for Dorian to identity it. Amusement, perhaps, or smugness. As dissimilar was the two typically were, on Cullen they occasionally looked the same. "Are you asking if I left my mark on you?"

A Pavus didn't splutter either. They had, however, rarely been known to swallow improperly and cough until their airways cleared. Dorian dutifully went about clearing his throat, then gave it up as a bad job and slapped Cullen's arm with the back of his hand. "Yes, you horrible man. Cease your terrible puns and answer me."

Cullen smirked, openly smug, and flicked a lock of hair back off of Dorian's forehead. "You are as immaculate as ever."

The compliment earned him a dubious stare. "Large word for an uneducated savage."

His smirk turned crooked as genuine amusement replaced self-satisfaction. "It must be your influence at work."

"Yes," Dorian agreed with mock arrogance, setting off in the direction of the ballroom. "I suppose it is. Congratulations to myself are clearly in order."

All too soon, they were surrounded by guests and servants again. When one of the latter drifted by with a tray full of wine, Dorian, having learned from the last time, immediately took two and passed one to Cullen without a word. He could feel the weight of dozens of sets of eyes on them, though it soon became apparent that the attention was simply due to who and what they were—a Tevinter mage everyone still believed was a magister and a half-naked barbarian who carried himself like a king and looked like he could tear people in two with his bare hands—rather than what they had been doing. That, it seemed, was going to remain their secret.

Although there was no overt hurry, Dorian was eager to find the Inquisitor and discover what, if anything, he'd learned during their absence. But there was a veritable sea of people between them and the ballroom, and it seemed that they were being stopped by curious partygoers every few feet. They never stayed to chat too long, excusing themselves either as soon as it became polite to do so or an offensive remark was made that gave them the opportunity to lob one back and depart in its wake.

Eventually, after what felt like an hour and likely was only half that, they made it back inside. The crowd had grown there as well. Those who weren't dancing or loitering in the aisles along the dance floor had taken over every nook, balcony, and adjacent room. From the sounds of revelry coming in through the open terrace doors, a substantial number had gone outside as well.

Yet when they wove their way through the crowds in search of him, Mahanon was nowhere to be found. Some of the others were. Leliana has holding court with nearly a dozen Orlesians, gossiping about fashion, shoes, and the popular choices for pets among the nobility. Josephine was speaking with a more smaller group of people, one of whom bore a striking resemblance to her. And they found Carver near the far end of the ballroom, hanging around Hawke, Fenris, and Varric. All four of them were drinking, though not to envy-inducing excess, and Dorian caught Carver actually  _smiling_  before he realized he was being watched and quickly doused it with a scowl.

_Too late_ , Dorian thought gleefully.  _I'm going to tell Felix I saw you having fun and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it._ Knowing Carver and his peculiar aversion to letting people see that he could relax and have fun like a normal person, he'd deny it. But no matter how magnificent his shoulders—and potentially the rest of him; Felix was rather discerning when it came to evaluating potential partners— were, he hadn't even a quarter of the history with Felix that Dorian possessed. In a battle of credibility, Dorian would win. And  _oh_ , how he would gloat over his victory.

But they didn't find everybody. Solas was missing, a singularly predictable discovery given Mahanon's absence. So was Cassandra, who had even less patience for the Orlesians and their nonsensical games than Carver and Cullen. They didn't see Vivienne anywhere, but odds were pretty even on whether she was with Mahanon or visiting with friends and associates from court. Blackwall too was unaccounted for, though Dorian wasn't certain if that meant anything either. With all that hair and that scraggly beard, he looked enough like an uncivilized wild man that those who'd been disappointed by Cullen's unavailability might have found some mediocre consolation with him. The mental images that accompanied such conjecture were unsavory enough that Dorian didn't want to linger over it too long.

They circulated back around to Leliana and as soon as a lull in the conversation with her new friends occurred, Dorian asked, in as vague and circumspect terms as he was capable, if there'd been any word from Mahanon. She responded in kind, her admirers none the wiser, and if he understood her answer correctly, there'd been some lead he'd gone to investigate.

"Well," Dorian said to Cullen as they left her to her amusements. "We might as well enjoy the ball while we wait for him to get back."

Ideally,  _enjoy the ball_  would have meant that they found another secluded room and enjoyed  _each other_  at least one more time, but Dorian wasn't that irresponsible. There was no telling how long the Inquisitor would be gone, a few minutes or closer to an hour, and it wouldn't do to be missing themselves when he returned. In lieu of indulging in a significantly more pleasant activities, they got fresh glasses of wine and adjourned to a less crowded section of the ballroom to drink and converse.

As it happened, it wasn't a long wait.

Before the wine ran out, Cullen spotted the Inquisitor moving purposefully through the crowd toward the Kirkwall contingent and nudged Dorian in the side. Carver noticed him shortly after Cullen had, and as they watched, he disengaged from his brother's side to meet him. Dorian was too far away to read Mahanon's lips, but his face was serious and as he spoke, Carver's mildly curious expression turned somber. He gave a short nod and they parted ways, Mahanon heading for the front of the ballroom where the Empress and the other high-ranking nobles had stationed themselves and Carver in the direction of the nearest Orlesian guards.

"It's happening," Cullen murmured, setting down his glass and starting forward.

Dorian was right beside him, casually side-stepping those too deep in their vapid conversations to realize that something far more interesting was occurring in front of them. From the corners of his eyes, he noticed other members of the Inquisition nonchalantly making their way closer to the Inquisitor as well. If it came to a fight, he wouldn't be facing it alone.

Orlais being somewhat like a toothless, more eccentric imitation of Tevinter, Dorian expected the culmination of the Inquisition's work that night to end with a considerably higher level of drama, bloodshed, and death than what actually transpired. Oh, there had been a number of deaths, a few caused by his own magic, and it was all very dramatic, but after such a build-up of tension and apprehension, he just felt that there ought to have been a little  _more_.

Mahanon confronted Florianne, sister to Gaspard and cousin to Celene, about the plot to kill the Empress in full view of everybody. She denied it, tried to cast aspersions on his recitation of events, but he was implacable and eventually her protests collapsed. She'd allied herself with Corypheus and had been acting as his agent, sowing discord and chaos throughout Orlais for the express purpose of killing Celene and framing Gaspard for it, presumably so that she could be installed as the new Empress. For how easily it had been uncovered and traced back to her, it seemed like an incompetently planned plot, but since it took an unhinged lunatic to think Corypheus was a good choice in leadership, perhaps it wasn't that surprising that that was the best she could do.

Gaspard condemned her, as any sane person might, and turned his back on her as the guards took her into custody. Then he swanned off with Celene, Mahanon, and Briala to have a private conversation that Dorian would have  _loved_  to have overheard. As impatient with diplomacy as Mahanon quickly became, he imagined that the "conversation" devolved quite fast into the Inquisitor haranguing them for being idiots and telling them in no uncertain terms what he thought they ought to do. Whether it would be a successful lecture or not, only time would tell, but for a Dalish elf who didn't truly want to lead anyone and whose beliefs were nebulous at best, Mahanon had the Maker's own luck.

When they reappeared shortly afterward, the Empress and the Duke put on a jolly good show about working together and the unity of the people standing fast against the destruction that threatened Thedas. Mahanon stood close to them, like a fed up father making sure that his unruly brats were going to play nice with one another this time, and said all the right uplifting, motivating things at all the right times. And when the speeches were done and the matter evidently resolved, the Maker-forsaken ball  _continued_.

"We're never getting out of here," Dorian grumbled to Cullen, as the crowd dispersed and got back to whatever passed for merrymaking among them.

He expected disgruntled agreement, but what he got was a look of faint surprise and a mild, "I would hope the evening isn't over."

"What?" Dorian stared at him, wondering if he'd accidentally imbibed too much wine and was now mishearing what Cullen was saying.

Taking hold of his hand without a word, Cullen started moving, leaving Dorian no choice but to either tug his hand free or follow him. The last time he had done this had gone far too well to opt for the former. However, unlike that particular episode, Dorian had no intention of going into this one unaware.

Drawing up beside him, Dorian squeezed his hand hard in the hope that it would communicate how serious he was, and asked, "Where are we going now?"

Either Cullen received the message or he hadn't had any desire to keep it a secret, for he didn't hesitate to provide an answer. "You wished for a dance. I aim to grant it."

It was so refreshingly straightforward that Dorian didn't immediately recognize the potential for miscommunication. When he did, he huffed in amusement. "I believe we've missed the window of opportunity where wanton fighting would be an acceptable course of action."

That didn't bring Cullen to a halt any more than it prompted him to provide further comment. He simply kept walking, guiding Dorian through the throng of chattering Orlesians. And when he did stop, it was at the entrance to the dance floor.

Dorian looked up at him in surprise. "Actual dancing?" He hadn't thought Cullen knew how to waltz. "Do you even know how?"

Cullen shrugged, seemingly unbothered by the question. "It is not so complicated that I cannot learn. Lead and I shall follow."

Dorian knew with perfect clarity that Cullen would never understand the gift he'd just given him in that moment. He could explain it to him, and probably eventually would, but to comprehend it on a visceral level, Cullen would've had to have grown up in Tevinter. He would've had to have experienced a lifetime spent suppressing his desires, hiding who he was, and when that concealment failed, facing ridicule and derision for something that was utterly beyond his control. He would've had to have spent years watching others take love and companionship for granted while expecting a future filled with loneliness, misery, and self-loathing. And not only was he so unthinkingly casual about his willingness to publicly declare his relationship with Dorian to the nobility of an entire country, he was also completely content with taking what was seen as a more subservient role in order to do it.  

"If you trample my feet, I'm going to be quite cross with you," Dorian told him severely, focusing on the downside of dancing with someone who hadn't a clue how to do it instead of letting himself get emotional about what it meant to do it in the first place.

Bless his heart, Cullen just laughed at him.

To his surprise, it wasn't a complete disaster. Cullen paid no attention to the looks they got as Dorian led him onto the dance floor and he proved to be as light on his feet when moving to music as he was when he had a sword in hand and his life depended on how well he could use it. Expecting at least one—that was the unrealistically optimistic estimation; if he was being realistic, he expected to lose count—mishap, he was shocked when Cullen neither stepped on his toes nor tripped over his own cloak. With every turn and twirl, it swirled dangerously around his legs, but it might have been harmless water instead of a thick pelt for all the difficulty it gave him. And after only a few repetitions of the steps, Cullen was moving as confidently as if he’d been a court dancer all his life.

Midway through the song, Dorian could no longer resist asking. "Have you been learning how to dance in secret?"

There was an ample number of potential tutors in Skyhold. Any one of them could have given him a lesson or two. Or perhaps a few pointers. It wouldn't be uncharacteristic of him to seek knowledge on his own, and if he meant his unexpected ballroom prowess as a surprise for Dorian, then it was even easier to envision him in the pursuit of it.

Cullen smiled at the question, though he waited until after he executed an effortlessly sharp pivot before responding. "We've done naught but stand in this room for nearly an hour. How could I not learn from watching them?"

He could have pointed out that plenty of people struggled to learn how to dance, but he dismissed the idea as soon as he thought of it.  _Plenty of people_  weren't Cullen. Whatever it was that made him special, and Dorian knew that it wasn't an extremely biased opinion of him that caused him to think of him in such a way, was evidently extraordinarily rare. He'd never met anyone like Cullen and after thirty years and an extensive history of traveling behind him, he knew that he never would meet someone like him again.

"And you enjoy it now, do you?" Dorian challenged, believing that Cullen was intelligent enough not to need what he meant explained to him in painstaking detail.

As usual, his faith was not misplaced. "It does not heat the blood the way the dancing of my people does," Cullen replied thoughtfully, sounding as though he was giving the question serious consideration. Then, with a dark, mischievous grin, he rather quickly ruined the illusion. "But you more than make up for what it lacks."

_Flattery will get you nowhere you haven't already been, you incorrigible fool._ It wouldn't do to tell him that, though. Cullen had enough of an ego where his attractiveness to Dorian was concerned. Inflating it even more would only serve to make him even more insufferable.

Dorian pretended to mull that over as they spun around and proceeded to make their way back down the span of floor they'd just advanced across. As they were preparing to make another turn, he shot Cullen a sly smile. "If you think dancing with me like  _this_  gets your blood hot, wait until you see one of my specialties from Tevinter."

If he wasn't exhausted by the time they got back to the chateau and he managed to find what he needed to perform it properly, he wouldn't even make him wait until they returned to Skyhold to see it.

* * *

Having successfully prevented Orlais from disintegrating into chaos and ruin—subjectively speaking, anyway; it was rather difficult to believe that a society comprised of people who carried on as if the masks they wore were their real faces hadn't already descended into ruin—Dorian thought that just  _maybe_  the Inquisition would have bought itself a bit of breathing room for some much needed recuperation and relaxation. But they'd barely returned to Skyhold before a slew of new, extremely important life or death problems found their way to the Inquisitor's war room. And once they'd snuck in and gotten his attention, Mahanon hadn't been able to ignore them.

There was the connection between the ocularum shards Mahanon had been collecting on his travels and some forgotten temple in the middle of an oasis on the western edge of Orlais that needed investigating. There was the crisis in Sahrnia and the Red Templars' takeover of Suledin Keep out in in the Emprise du Lion that needed dealt with. There were Venatori running amok in the Hissing Wastes, getting up to all manner of trouble that someone—specifically someone with pointy ears, an increasingly irritated demeanor, and a magical glowing hand—had to exterminate. There were dragons infesting everything. There were mysteries and riddles that needed solving. And a veritably endless fount of personal problems that Mahanon was inexplicably too polite to decline getting involved with.

Dorian tried to stay out of the personal problems as much as possible, especially when they involved townspeople, villagers, and random strangers Mahanon met through his travels. But every once in a while one of them came from a member of the Inquisition with whom Dorian was on a marginally friendly basis, and in spite of common sense telling him to stay as far away from it as possible, he found himself involved anyway. That Cullen was always eager to help a friend—by that point,  _everyone_  was a friend—didn't help matters either. Because if Cullen got tangled up in it, invariably so did Dorian.

The eponym of Varric's crossbow selling Thedas out to Corypheus by accidentally providing him with the location of red lyrium. The discovery of the tragic fate of the Seekers. The truth of Warden Blackwall and Thom Rainier. Carver’s vendetta against a templar from his past. For better or worse, Dorian was present for the drama that followed all of it. And from Felix and Cullen, he learned of even more stemming from other Inquisition members that he was mercifully absent from having to experience.

But as they slaughtered their way through Venatori and corrupted templars and solved every minor dilemma of every living soul on Thedas, one particularly worrisome problem was suspiciously absent from the world. Corypheus. Where he was and what he was doing, no one knew. There were no rumors, no clues, and none of his witless followers had any useful information to offer whenever they accidentally managed to leave one alive. It was too much to hope that the loss of his demon army and the enduring pseudo-stability in Orlais had convinced him to give up and go back to the Grey Warden prison he'd called home for so many centuries.

And eventually, as they all knew would happen, word of his movements finally reached them.

Morrigan, Celene's former advisor and yet another Hero of the Fifth Blight, warned Mahanon about some magical mirror in the Arbor Wilds. Used for long distance travel via access to a place she unhelpfully called the Crossroads, she theorized that Corypheus meant to use it to reach the Fade and return to the Black City. And because that would be Very Bad, the Inquisition's army was mobilized, its alliance with Orlais was called in, and every able-bodied soldier and warrior who wanted to prevent the end of the world went marching off to the south.

Just as promised, Corypheus' forces  _were_  infiltrating the Arbor Wilds, and after days of fighting, Carver and his soldiers got Mahanon and his craziest, most suicidal friends—Solas, Varric, Dorian, and Cullen—to the long abandoned and forgotten Temple of Mythal that supposedly housed the mirror. Inside, they found Corypheus' lieutenant Samson, the templar from Kirkwall that had been vexing Carver so, and a number of his red lyrium-corrupted monstrosities. It should have been enough to kill the Red Templars and apprehend Samson, but to no one's great surprise, it wasn't.

There were odd ancient elven rituals to complete. Which they did, because Solas said they ought to do it and despite whatever problem was currently going on between him and the Inquisitor—they'd been so busy lately that Dorian hadn't time to inquire about it—Mahanon agreed. Stranger yet, there were also ancient elves in the temple.  _Living, breathing ancient elves._  They actually got to talk to one of them, a fellow by the name of Abelas, who not only wasn't terribly helpful but also casually dropped into conversation the fact that Tevinter had nothing to do with the elven empire's collapse. Dorian was still reeling from that and what it might mean for Tevinter when his country learned the truth of their history, when Mahanon, against everyone's wishes, waded heedlessly into a pool of water ominously called the Well of Sorrows and drank it.

Dorian thought it was stupid. Morrigan thought it was stupid. Varric thought it was stupid. If he hadn't unceremoniously left them there, Abelas probably would have thought it was stupid. And judging from the expression on Solas' face,  _stupid_  didn't begin to fully encapsulate his opinion on the matter. But before anyone could yell at him for being a careless fool, Corypheus attacked them and sent them all rushing through the eluvian to safety. Which, being Skyhold, meant that there were even more angry people available to shout at him.

After it was over, a series of meetings took place in the war room between the Inquisitor, his advisors, the unpleasant witch of dubious loyalties, everyone who had been present at the Well, and the rest of Mahanon's inner circle of associates. Possible courses of action that the Inquisition could take were bandied about, dissected, and revised. Periodically, Mahanon stopped listening to the people in the room and focused instead on the voices in his head, causing fresh rounds of lectures to break out and the meetings ultimately to end with those present disgruntled and annoyed with each other.

It wasn't until a few days later that Mahanon sought Dorian out and, thanks to Morrigan's murky counsel, proposed traveling back to the Arbor Wilds, finding some altar to Mythal, and summoning a god to help them deal with their Corypheus problem. Ages ago when gods were said to answer prayers, that might have been a fantastic idea, but these days gods, elven or otherwise, were little more than myth and legend. But far be it from Dorian to tell his friend that he was likely setting himself up for disappointment.

Not wanting to miss glimpsing one of the elven gods about whom he knew practically nothing, Cullen joined them. Solas did as well, to no one's surprise, and Varric, likely wanting to include it in whatever atrocious novel he was writing now, insisted on coming along. Morrigan didn't look pleased with Mahanon's entourage, but she rarely looked pleased by anything, so Dorian didn't take it personally.

They found the altar without difficulty. Whatever strange power Mahanon had acquired through drinking from the Well seemed to guide his steps and lead him directly to it. That was fortunate for them, because it was nestled in among a profusion of plant growth at the far end of a large clearing in the middle of the forest, nowhere near the temple and easy to overlook if one wasn't expecting to find it there. It looked even older than the temple had, the altar itself little more than a platform and a broken statue that still bore a resemblance to a winged woman.

Mahanon began reading the inscription upon it as if he'd been reading the ancient language of his people all his life. Midway through, Solas joined him, confirming that he hadn't gotten it wrong.  _We few who travel far, call to me, and I will come. Without mercy. Without fear. Cry havoc in the moonlight. Let the fire of vengeance burn. The cause is clear._ From the corner of his eye, Dorian could see Cullen straightening up, tensing as if expecting an attack. He couldn't blame him. It sounded ominous and not at all like whatever might answer would be inclined to help them.

If the Inquisitor was about to offer an invocation that truly  _would_  manifest one of his peoples' old gods there in the world, it seemed prudent to give him a little privacy. With assurances that they wouldn't go too far, lest he encountered trouble he could not deal with alone, they retreated to the opposite side of the clearing where they could keep an eye on the situation without being in the way.

Dorian didn't know what to expect. The Old Gods of Tevinter were said to be dragons, and all of the imagery in the temple suggested that the elven gods might have been something similar. If not true dragons, than creatures capable of taking that form. Even the statue at the altar appeared to be somewhat draconic.

But it wasn't a dragon that winged its way into the clearing after Mahanon finished pacing back and forth in front of the statue. It was the figure of a woman who appeared in a swirl of smoke and who looked remarkably human from where Dorian was standing. He could not hear what passed between them, though after a long discussion, the woman walked away from them and disappeared in the same smoke she'd arrived.

As the smoke cleared, Varric let out a low whistle. "That woman never changes."

Nearly as one, they turned to him and stared. The same question was probably on all their tongues, but Solas was the one who managed to speak it first. "What?"

Shrugging as if he was discussing something as mundane as the weather, Varric started moving back across the clearing toward the Inquisitor. "An old friend of Hawke's. He knows everybody." He must have realized that none of them were following him, because he glanced back at them over his shoulder. "Well? You guys coming or what?"

Throughout the months he'd spent with the Inquisition, Dorian had learned that when Varric didn't want to discuss about something, no amount of prying could encourage him to talk. Now, his casual tone suggested that he'd said all he intended to on the subject and was content to leave them behind if they didn't get moving.

"Never a dull moment, is there?" Dorian asked Cullen, shooting him a crooked smile as they trailed behind dwarf and elf. Cullen's expression was so unexpectedly pensive that Dorian paused mid-step and caught his arm. "Cullen? Is everything—"

A low sound, somewhat like the crackle of fire and a little like the rustle of leaves caught in the wind, startled him into silence. Warily, he turned to look behind him. Smoke was dissipating into the air. The woman was standing there, uncomfortably close to them. She was tall, made even more so by the horn-like styling of her white hair, outfitted in odd armor that was simultaneously familiar and alien, and as Dorian's gaze settled on her face, his skin prickled and the hair on the back of his neck rose as eerie discomfort swept over him. Her eyes were as golden as Cullen's.

She barely acknowledged Dorian's existence. Her attention was focused too completely on Cullen. "Do you see me, child?"

"Aye, Lady," Cullen replied, more gravely than Dorian had ever heard him speak. Fisting his right hand, he pressed it against his chest, over his heart, and bowed his head. "I see you true."

There was no mistaking the posture as anything but deferential. Dorian looked at him for a moment, bewildered, before shooting the woman another, infinitely more suspicious stare.

Mythal, or whoever she truly was, arched a dark eyebrow. "Your destiny shall soon be upon you. Do you stand ready to face it?"

Cullen nodded. "Aye, Lady. You need only tell me what must be done and I will see it through."

_What the fuck is going on?_  The obvious assumption was that she was related to him. Their eyes were too similar, the color so rare that he'd only ever seen its like with Morrigan, and she looked old enough to be his mother. But Cullen didn't know his mother. It was common knowledge among the Avvar of Red-Lion Hold that his parents were dead. Dorian hadn't forgotten the stories and there was no reason for anyone to lie about it. Therefore, the obvious assumption was wrong, though what happened to be  _right_ wasn't apparent.

Civil as he could be when he wished it, Cullen was far from inclined to treat anyone with this much respect.  _This_  bordered on reverence. And the only thing Cullen ever spoke about with anything resembling reverence were his gods. Occasionally Dorian, too, when he was being insufferably romance.

"So young and eager," the woman said approvingly. "I remember those days well." She smiled, bittersweet and nostalgic. "In time. First, I would ask a favor of you, Cullen Wolf-Bane."

He didn't hesitate. "It is done."

She chuckled, a low, throaty sound that inexplicably plucked at Dorian's fight or flight instincts. "Such faith you have in me. It is a rare quality these days."

A shadow of the casually irreverent Cullen to whom Dorian was accustomed emerged for a moment as he shrugged. "A path is no less true for the obstacles that line it." Because he was looking at Cullen as he said it, Dorian caught the brief glance he shot his way as he continued. "And you have granted me favors beyond measure. I would repay them."

Favors. Dorian.  _Lady_. A suspicion started to scratch at the back of his mind, demanding that Dorian pay it the attention it desperately wanted. He would have done it, but he couldn't shake the feeling that whatever they were talking about was more important than it seemed and he didn't want to miss a word.

"And so you shall." As ominous as that sounded, her expression remained relaxed. Almost smiling. "When they call to you, I ask you to answer. Though the path you will take to reach them will be the darkest you will ever travel, you will need them in the days to come."

_Who?_  Dorian thought furiously, trying to will Cullen into asking the right questions like a sensible person. Because he wasn't asking a damn thing and all that talk about dark paths was doing nothing to assuage Dorian's concern that Cullen was getting involved in something well beyond his abilities.

But he didn't ask the logical questions. He never did. "I do not fear the dark, Lady," was all he said, unshakably confident.

She smiled again, proudly this time. "No. You don't."

_That's it._ Holding his tongue when he had something to say was difficult in the most innocuous of times. In circumstances like this, it was impossible. Dorian took a step forward, meaning for the movement to draw their attention. And it worked. Her eyes flicked sideways and settled on him.

"Excuse me," he began, with all the courtesy he would have granted the Archon if he'd interrupted him in the middle of a conversation. But that was as far as he was willing to take it. "Who are you?"

Her gaze swept over him in an all too familiar appraisal. It wasn't clear what judgment she reached when she finished making her assessment. Her expression was a little too neutral. "You are far from home, Dorian Pavus."

Ignoring the surprise she evoked at knowing his name, Dorian gave her a bland smile. "Oh, you know how it is. Tevinter supremacists and a darkspawn magister are trying to destroy the world. Cleaning up my wayward countrymen is the least I can do."

Was it his imagine or did she just smile at that? "And will you do so?" He couldn't decide if that was a legitimate question or a challenge. "If all of Tevinter stands behind you, what will you do then?"

If she was who he thought she was, he still didn't owe her anything. The old augur might have told Cullen that their gods were giving him a gift, but it had been Dorian's decision to leave Tevinter.  _He'd_  chosen the path that had taken him into Red-Lion territory.  _He'd_  chosen to stay with the Avvar when Cullen had extended the invitation. Yet even though he owed her nothing, Dorian drew himself up a little, straightened his shoulders, and met her eyes.

"Mend what my people have broken," he told her calmly, more confident in his determination to push for a change in Tevinter at that moment than he'd ever been in his life. "Tevinter has lost its way. I would see it become worthy of the pride it claims to have in itself."

Again that flash of something that might have been a smile flickered across her mouth. "I have many names. Some of them you've already heard. Some you may yet hear."

Finally,  _finally_ , Cullen had a question. "Lady, I would—"

So  _of course,_  she forestalled it by lifting her hand. "You will do what needs done. Faith, child, flows both ways."

And then she was gone, a few tendrils of smoke twisting and fading through the air the only visible proof that she'd ever been there at all.

Stupidly, Dorian glanced around as if he might see her standing elsewhere, before he reined himself in and turned to Cullen, who looked awfully serene for having heard a number of riddles and no answers. He met his eyes and with a slight half-smile, nodded.

"She is the Lady of the Skies."

He didn't know what was more astonishing, that something that might have been a god had actually been standing there talking to them or that Cullen had volunteered information without having to be asked. Hoping, likely in vain, to keep the trend going, he asked, "What did she mean? All of that? Who was she talking about?"

Cullen shook his head. "I do not know." Yet despite that, he didn't sound very concerned about that lack of knowledge, even with dark and dangerous paths supposedly lurking in his future. "All will become clear in time."

_How is that good enough for you?_  Dorian wanted to shout it at him, perhaps grab him by the shoulders and shake some much needed sense into him. But before he could choke down his outrage enough to give the words room to escape, Varric called out to them.

"Hey!" When Dorian looked in his direction, he saw him and Solas standing halfway across the clearing, looking impatiently at them. "Are you two going to join us or do you need us to leave you alone while you sort out whatever the problem is?"

"What?" Dorian called back, confused. "Didn't you—"

The weight of Cullen's hand settling on his arm shut him up. "The Lady reveals herself only when she wishes and only to those she means to see her." He nodded toward their annoyed companions. "Come, we will speak of it later."

_Avvar,_ Dorian thought in disgust as he grudgingly got moving. How Cullen could hear such a convoluted, mysterious prophecy about himself and not have any questions about it, he couldn't fathom. And although he was promising to  _speak of it later_ , Dorian knew him and his vague nonsense well enough to know that they could spend an entire day talking about it and he likely wouldn't be satisfied with any of it.  _I don't know how I put up with this._

All he could do was hope that Mahanon had gotten something a little more useful from the conversation he'd had with her. And didn’t get eaten by the dragon that plummeted down into the clearing before they managed to reach him.

_Dragons. It’s always fucking dragons._


	4. Part Four

One would think that after imbibing the knowledge of the ancient elves, possibly getting the blessings of a god, and convincing Mythal's guardian dragon to join the Inquisition's cause after a protracted trial by combat that only pleased lunatics like Cullen, Mahanon would be ready to confront Corypheus. Not only  _ready_ , but veritably chomping at the bit to do it. But although they had scored numerous victories throughout the course of the long war, there were still a few unfortunate problems standing between the Inquisition and victory.

One was an intensely personal issue that had no neat solution. In the days following the meeting with Flemeth—the name Mythal was apparently going by these days—Mahanon had confided in Dorian that Solas had dissolved the relationship between them and would not speak with him about the situation. He'd given no real reason that Mahanon could discern, save perhaps that he'd refused to let him remove the tattoo from his face, and every time he tried to discuss it, Solas would change the subject or simply quit the conversation.

Knowing he hadn't the liberty to wallow in his loss when he had the fate of the world resting quite literally in his hand, Mahanon had been doing the best that he could to keep his feelings out of his daily dealings with everyone around him. But it was wearing on him. He couldn't sleep properly and he wasn't eating very well. He wasn't just nursing a broken heart, he was doing his damnedest not to let it adversely affect his decision-making skills.

Dorian would have given a great deal to fix it for him, but there were no magic words to ease the pain of loss or force Solas to stop being a coy bastard and tell him the truth. All he could do was listen to him and offer his companionship whenever the loneliness grew to be too much to bear. Cullen echoed that sentiment when he learned of what had transpired and after word got around to Felix, the three of them went out of their way to provide company and, when necessary, a distraction. The endeavor grew after Hawke and Fenris, through Carver, got a hold of the news, and before long, Mahanon was conveniently never alone with his thoughts unless he specifically asked to be.

It wasn't an ideal, sustainable way to solve the problem, but it was the best they could do. Mahanon wouldn't let Dorian set Solas on fire and he told Cullen in no uncertain terms that he couldn't ambush him on his way back to his room and throw him over the battlements.

The other dilemma, while posing a significantly greater danger to Thedas than a deteriorated relationship, was at least more straightforward in how it needed to be handled.

Initially, the matter was brought to the Inquisition's attention by a Professor Kenric from the University of Orlais. In pursuit of his scholarly work, he was investigating the Frostback Basin when he made a discovery that he felt would be beneficial not just to the academic community, but to the Inquisition as well. He requested that the Inquisitor make the journey to meet him and Mahanon, incapable of saying no and likely wanting a break from the stress induced by Solas' presence, agreed. And because Dorian and Cullen had the most experience with the Basin out of everyone in the Inquisition, he insisted that they accompany him.

Returning back to the snow and mud and dismally cold temperatures of the Frostback Basin did not fill Dorian with excited anticipation, though the same could not be said for his husband. There was something a little too disgustingly gleeful about the way Cullen slathered on the magical mud of his people the day of their departure from Skyhold, prompting Dorian to inform him that he was going to be sleeping  _outside_  the tent that night. Dire as the threat was, he didn't take it with the gravity it deserved. Instead, he smiled and chased Dorian around their quarters with the pot of the gunk until Dorian threatened to set him on fire.

The journey through the mountains to the Basin was uneventful, though the wind was icy and Dorian spent the majority of it on his Maker-forsaken dracolisk, huddled inside of so many cloaks and furs that he could barely see out of them all. Neither Mahanon, Cassandra, nor Varric seemed pleased by the temperature, but none of them complained as much as Dorian did. And Cullen, wearing more mud than fur, cavorted around with Selkor and Falkyr like it was a balmy summer day. By the time the mountain snow started to give way to rocks and scraggly plants, Dorian was ready to murder him.

The Basin itself was much warmer, verging on tropical, and as they made their way across it to Kenric's encampment, Dorian felt his mood improve with every layer he was able to shed. It was certainly a vast improvement from some of the other places Mahanon had taken him, like the snow-covered Emprise or the inhospitable Western Approach.  _Maybe_ , he thought with uncharacteristic optimism,  _this won't be a wholly terrible experience._  After all, they were there to review a professor's findings. Not fight a war or uncover a plot to overthrown the leaders of a country.

His positive outlook on their task survived conversations about former Inquisitor Ameridan, Avvar artifacts, and Tevinter ruins, but burned to ash the moment he heard talk of  _hostile Avvar_  repeated more than once. This wasn't his first trek through the wilderness. The moment a passing comment about a danger became an actual point of discussion, he could confidently wager on it coming back to bite him in his perfect ass.

The signs were everywhere. Mysterious clues that led to some equally mysterious island. An assistant poking through ruins far enough away from the camp that no one would realize she'd been horrifically murdered until her killers descended on the place under the cover of night to slaughter them all. _Reports of hostile Avvar_.

None of the others seemed unduly bothered by any of it. Mahanon was as upbeat and positive as he got these days. Varric was rambling on to Cassandra about some trip he'd made with Hawke years ago that reminded him of this one, and instead of getting annoyed with him or telling him to shut up and focus, she was either humoring him or actually listening. And Cullen, naturally, looked as though he couldn't be more comfortable. It was, Dorian knew with certainty, going to be an unmitigated disaster.

To Dorian's complete absence of amazement, things got complicated as soon as they passed beyond sight of the camp. A deluge of overgrown wildlife attempted to kill them at every turn, although from the way Cullen and Selkor carried on as they fought their way free each time they were attacked, it was all in terribly good fun and they should have been having the time of their lives. The island wasn't readily accessible and for some reason acquiring a boat was well nigh impossible. And they found Kenric's assistant fighting for her life, just like Dorian had pessimistically envisioned, however, they did manage to arrive in time to save her and see her off on yet another undoubtedly dangerous trek through the blighted jungle to the Maker only knew where.

And  _then_ , there were the hostile Avvar.

The Inquisition scouts hadn't been exaggerating. Those black and white painted lunatics were lurking everywhere, always brandishing weapons whenever they caught sight of them, yelling threats and imprecations, shouting about Hakkon, and doing their level best to kill the lot of them. Cullen tried speaking with them the first few times they encountered them, but they weren't in the mood to chat and never let him get very far in his greeting before they tried to behead him. After a while, he gave diplomacy up as a bad job and became the lethal, silent killer Dorian had witnessed back in Red-Lion Hold. Eventually, as Cullen and Selkor ranged further and further ahead, they stopped encountering the belligerent Avvar altogether. All they found were their corpses, freshly spilled blood still wet on the ground.

Eventually, they met an Avvar fisherman who directed them to the hold of another clan of Avvar who supposedly weren't interested in killing them. These more peaceful Avvar, belonging to Stone-Bear Hold, might be inclined to help them. Or at the very least, give the fisherman permission to let them use his boat.

"Do you know these Stone-Bear Avvar?" Mahanon asked Cullen as they left the fisherman's hut and began the long climb up the side of the mountain where the hold was located.

"Aye."  _Of course he bloody does_ , thought Dorian, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "My clan resides far from here, but it has pledged peace-oaths and alliances with Stone-Bear Hold for many years."

"Do you think they'll help us?" Cassandra shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun. "Or could this be a trap?"

Cullen gave it more consideration than Dorian was expecting for a clan he'd just said was an ally of Red Lion Hold. "No. Svarah Sun-Hair has honor. If she meant us harm, we would have met her warriors in the forest."

"And you're certain those Avvar we've encountered are not part of her clan?" Mahanon pressed, curious more than accusatory.

"Aye," Cullen responded darkly, his voice just barely above a snarl. "They were not of Stone-Bear Hold."

Dorian looked at him sharply, slightly taken aback by his tone. Whoever they were, they weren't the first Avvar who'd ever tried to kill them, but he couldn't remember this much venom in Cullen's voice when he'd spoken of those who belonged to Wolfhold. It meant something, surely, but on his own, he couldn't figure it out. Cullen had to have felt the weight of his gaze, he was too perceptive to miss attention so blatant, but he kept his own eyes on the path ahead, scouting perhaps, or simply not interested in acknowledging the issue. Dorian had to content himself with studying his profile for clues, yet aside from narrowed eyes and a tense jaw, there wasn't much there with which to work.

Even though the hold was located near the top of the mountain, it didn't take them nearly as long as Dorian thought it would to reach it. The path was well-maintained, clear of snow and debris, and wide enough for two people to walk abreast. Cullen was uncharacteristically silent for the rest of the climb, seemingly lost in unpleasant thoughts. He did, however, keep pace at Dorian's side in what Dorian could only assume was meant to be reassurance that whatever was troubling him had nothing to do with him personally. And if that was the case, it was certainly considerate, but also wholly unnecessary.

They knew they were close to the hold when the path widened so far that they began passing Avvar going about their business along the side of it. None of them moved to interfere with their passage, though many of them did stop what they were doing to watch them walk by and more than once, Dorian heard them exchanging gossipy comments. Most of those that he overheard pertained to their clothes and how strange their garments were—this from people who wore  _mud_  like it was the most stylish accessory of the year!—but interspersed among such critiques were far more interesting remarks. A number of  _those_  were hushed whispers about the Inquisitor, bits of rumor and fanciful nonsense that made Mahanon out to be something of near mythical proportions. However,  _Dreamwalker_ was also being tossed back and forth in tones of awe and wonder, which made no sense at all. And trying to listen more closely to figure out what they were talking about was no help whatsoever.

It wasn't until they entered the hold proper and found its thane, Svarah Sun-Hair, that things became clearer. On all scores.

She was speaking with another mud-spattered barbarian, a man with the kind of large horned helmet that Dorian recognized as a mark of leadership, while a contest of skill was going on in front of them. As they approached, it became obvious that the conversation, while superficially friendly, wasn't anything of the sort. The man was making comments that Dorian's experience with Cullen and his clan told him were thinly veiled threats, but Sun-Hair, while not calling him on it, didn't appear duly alarmed. They broke off as the group approached.

The unpleasant fellow's sharp eyes raked over them seconds before he called out, "I know you, Wolf-Bane. The mighty thane of Red-Lion Hold." His voice turned contemptuous, as he gestured toward them and sneered, "And look at you now, brought to heel by your lowlander master."

Cullen went for his sword as Selkor uttered a low, yet wholly audible, growl, but Sun-Hair beat them both to it. "Gurd!" she snapped, voice hard. "The Inquisitor and his companions have guest-welcome in my hold. I caution you to treat them with respect."

In his peripherial vision, Dorian was able to see Cullen take his hand away from his sword without needing to take his eyes off of the other Avvar. He couldn't see Selkor from where he was standing, but the growling had stopped and no one was screaming, indicating a figurative standing down of the lion as well.  _Diplomatic crisis averted_ , he thought, not even remotely as relieved as he ought to have been. It would have been nice to reduce the smug bastard to a blackened scorch mark on the ground for the insult to Cullen.

The sentiment must have been mutual, because Cullen's tone was all implacable menace as he promised, "We will meet again, Gurd Harofsen. Guard yourself well against that day."

No doubt sensing how precarious the forced truce was, Sun-Hair gestured toward the Inquisition, and by proxy, the rest of them. "Come. Let us speak elsewhere."

She led them away from the scene of the competition, won in favor of someone whose name Dorian had been too preoccupied to catch and wouldn't have meant anything to him even if he had, and into a nearby cave. It was reminiscent enough of the throne-cave in Red-Lion Hold that he shot Cullen a pointed look, but Cullen was too busy glowering to notice.  _If we make it out of here without having to kill everyone, it will be a miracle._

Mahanon handled the bulk of the conversation, likely recognizing that he and his general dislike of complicated diplomacy were regrettably all that was preventing Cullen from hijacking the discussion with barbarian politics, while the rest of them stood there and listened. Harofsen and his Jaws of Hakkon were evidently causing everyone in the region trouble, though Stone-Bear Hold was currently excluded from the worst of it due to their peace treaty. Helping the Inquisition with the boat would require Sun-Hair to break the clan's oath to Harofsen's clan, which would be bad because of the weather and their missing hold-beast, Storvacker, but also probably popular among the clanspeople, since no one really liked the Hakkonites and Cullen, a local hero, was part of the Inquisition.

"There's naught to be done for the weather," Cullen said into the silence, as Mahanon tried to figure out what he wanted to do. "But I will find Storvacker. Whether you can aid us in our quest or not is immaterial."

_And that's why they think he's a hero_ , Dorian thought, biting back the smile that threatened to slip across his mouth. He knew Cullen would do it, too. Break off from the group, wander the wilderness alone until he located one bear out of Maker only knew how many lived in the area, and escort her back to the hold for no reason save that he deemed it the right one.

" _We'll_  find Storvacker," Mahanon stressed, sounding completely unperturbed by Cullen making decisions for them. "Selkor here—" He gestured to the lion, who twitched his tail in acknowledgement of being mentioned. "—has been an invaluable member of the Inquisition. I can only imagine that your bear means as much to you and your clan as he does to us."

"Find Storvacker and our blades are yours," Sun-Hair promised them.

So they did. It took a considerable amount of running about the wilderness, fighting patrols of Hakkonites, and uncovering a multitude of artifacts and obscure rituals, but eventually they found her in some old Tevinter ruins, caged by Hakkonites yet mercifully still alive. Cullen and Selkor killed most of her abductors before the rest of them could engage in the battle, but Dorian was still able to set fire to an uncommonly large, brutish man who was offensive to his sensibilities on a visceral level.

What followed the bear's release was the most bizarre communion that Dorian had ever witnessed. Sun-Hair claimed Storvacker was not overly fond of strangers, yet she greeted Selkor and Cullen as if she'd known them all her life. When Falkyr alighted on a branch beside her, she merely glanced his way. And when Cullen bent and rested his forehead against the top of her head, she  _didn't_ rear back, bite his face off, or maul him to death.

Mahanon looked at him curiously, as if he expected Dorian to be able to translate whatever mystical Avvar nature nonsense was happening, but he just shrugged and shook his head. He had no bloody clue what was going on.

All three animals disappeared into the brush as Cullen rejoined them. "They will meet us at the hold."

But it wasn't just the animals who met them there. It was most of the Avvar present at the hold, as well, and a feast in honor of... Dorian wasn't entirely clear on what precisely they were celebrating. The return of Storvacker, the Inquisition, the war they could now happily wage on the Hakkonites, or Cullen. Whatever the cause, food and drink were plentiful that night and a great test of skill was held in their arena to honor Hakkon. Or the hold. Or possibly Storvacker. Dorian wasn't sure about that one either. Avvar took any excuse they could to have contests and mock battles. This appeared to be no exception.

To the delight of everyone, Cullen entered the arena alone and, inevitably, won to shouts so loud and chaotic that it was impossible to make out what the Avvar were saying. Then they all took a turn, five of them against the best warriors of the hold, and when they won, Dorian was half-afraid the noise would start an avalanche.  _Only Avvar are ever this excited when they lose a contest._

Although Sun-Hair gave them leave to use the boat they'd initially wanted, they stayed with the Avvar for a few days, helping them on various tasks and learning more about them. And, as it happened, about themselves.

During their first meeting with the augur, he summoned a bevy of spirits into the world to see them. It was more than a little unnerving, seeing as they were most interested in Mahanon, who apparently burned as brightly as fire to them, and Cullen, who they called Dreamwalker.

"What does that mean?" Dorian asked, interrupting whatever Mahanon had been about to say. " _Dreamwalker_. I've heard it before."

"The gods speak of him almost as often as they do your Inquisitor," the augur explained.  _I wish you'd learn from them_ , Dorian thought, shooting Cullen a look.  _They actually_ answer _questions when they're asked them._  "The Dreamwalker who came to the Fade and banished the Nightmare that plagued it."

Never one to acknowledge his deeds when deferring to others was possible, Cullen immediately corrected him. "I was not alone. There were seven of us there that day. All of us fought it."

That was not entirely true. Solas and Varric  _hadn't_  fought it, though Dorian suspected that they would have done so without reservation if they hadn't already gone through the rift prior to Cullen being a suicidal idiot. He would have pointed it out simply for the sake of besmirching Solas' name, but he suspected that Mahanon didn't need reminding of the bastard and he didn't want to cast Varric in an unfavorable light.

"Don't pay any attention to him," Dorian interjected lightly, waving away Cullen's protest. "He doesn't take credit for anything he does."

The spirits seemed inclined to agree with him. The Avvar too, for that matter, because now that he understood what it was and what it meant, he listened more closely for it when he was out in the hold and heard it being used  _more_ often, not less. Cullen didn't insist on its use being stopped, but Dorian caught him looking slightly exasperated whenever he heard it.

"What's the matter?" he teased him one afternoon, after they'd located the augur's missing apprentice. "You don't enjoy having a second legend-mark?"

Cullen snorted in dismissal. "We do not have more than one legend-mark."

"Evidently you do,  _Dreamwalker_ ," Dorian told him, lifting his eyebrows as he emphasized the title."

Gently so as not to upset his balance atop the tangle of roots and vines over which they were currently navigating, Cullen gave him a tiny shove. "You are not amusing."

"Oh, I'm quite amusing." Dropping the lofty tone for one of more sincerity, he continued, "Honestly, Cullen, if anyone deserves two of the things, it's you. Why, look at Mahanon." He gestured toward their fearless leader some distance ahead of them, shooting lightning at the huge spiders that were crawling toward them from the riverbed. "He's got dozens of titles and names."

It must not have been an impressive point, because Cullen's response was a bland glance and a dry, "I've no need of such trappings."

Sure that he was winning the argument, Dorian intended to continue. Unfortunately, an even larger spider hauled its disgusting bulk over a log, dwarfing its fellows, and skittered toward them. In light of the more pressing issue—killing it before it got anywhere near them—he shelved the conversation and started hurling fire at the horrific thing.

"We're not done with this!" he called after Cullen, who'd vaulted down to the forest floor to deal with the spiders directly.

"Yes we are!" he hollered back, before fearlessly darting into the thick of the disgusting creatures.

Despite meaning to get back to it as soon as the spiders were exterminated, they were waylaid by a number of other distractions. Odd ruins. Odder devices of Tevinter make. More ravenous beasts. An increasing number of Hakkonites. Breaking through the magic guarding the Tevinter fortress they'd taken as their own. And exploration of the mysterious island, which gave them a wealth of information about Ameridan and the tragedy that befell his lover.

After briefing Kenric and reconvening with Sun-Hair, they and their Avvar allies attacked the Hakkonites' finally vulnerable fortress. Understanding now that the Harofsen meant to bind the god to a dragon, Cullen tore through their ranks like a rage demon. It was a stunning sight, though regrettably, it was one that Dorian was only briefly able to watch, too busy fighting off a number of Hakkonite mages to afford himself the luxury of observation. One thing he knew, however, was that the Stone-Bear Avvar who survived would have a number of stories to take back to the hold.

If Cullen managed to emerge from this battle with only two legend-marks to his name, it would be a shocking surprise.

The battle led them into the fortress and down into its depths, through crazed warriors, treacherous spells, and finally, directly to Ameridan and the dragon into which Hakkon had been imprisoned, suspended in time, and a demon-possessed Harofsen. What power Harofsen gained through the deal he struck, though vast, was no match for the combined might that they brought against him. Cullen struck the final blow, a precise strike so strong that it sheered Harofsen's head from his body in a blaze of green light.

Dorian was relighting one of the fires, desperate to bring more warmth into the underground chamber after the abomination's frigid magic, when it happened and he was standing at such a vantage that he was able to watch as Cullen followed the head as it rolled to rest some distance from its body. Shaking the blood from his blade, Cullen stared down at Harofsen's face, forever frozen in a rictus of fury, for a moment, before he said coldly, "You ought to have heeded my warning."

Privately, Dorian thought that it wouldn't have mattered how many safeguards he surrounded himself with. Ancient Tevinter magic, the entirety of his clan, a fortress meant to be impenetrable: none of it had stood against them. And from the way Cullen had thrown himself at everything in their path—fighting not just for his family or the Inquisition or his people, but for a god he revered—nothing would have managed to do what fortresses, fanaticism, and magic had failed to accomplish.

The spell holding Ameridan faded, granting Mahanon the opportunity to speak with him for a few minutes before he too faded away. Free of the burden he had never wanted. Free to join Telana at the Maker's side. Some deep sense of foreboding prickled at Dorian's instincts and drew his eyes to Mahanon, similar to Ameridan in so many ways.

_Please grant my friend a better end than this._ Dorian didn't know to whom he was directing the plea, whether he meant it for the Maker or Andraste or something else entirely. All he knew was that he meant every word of it. _Please don't take everything from him too. He deserves more than this._

Unfortunately, freeing Ameridan from the spell that had held him frozen through the centuries also meant freeing the dragon. The huge, restless,  _enraged_  dragon possessed by a spirit that was never meant to be confined to flesh and bone. And that dragon made a swift escape to the surface the instant it was released.

Knowing that loosing a furious abomination on the world would only serve to inadvertently aid Corypheus, they raced to the surface after it. But not even Cullen's tireless speed could propel them up through the labyrinthine levels of the fortress faster than wings. By the time they staggered out onto the mountain, night had fallen and Hakkon was already wrecking havoc on the Basin. A large swath of shoreline, and a fair stretch of the water as well, had been frozen.

"We must kill it lest it bring winter to the entire land," Cullen told them. "And we must do it quickly."

Mahanon spared a moment to look at him in surprise. "You aren't troubled by killing one of your gods?"

"Gods must be free," Cullen replied firmly, then took off down the path, Selkor at his heels and Falkyr a swiftly moving shadow high above him.

Daunting though the prospect of killing a god seemed to be, in actuality, it wasn't remarkably harder than killing any of the other high dragons they'd encountered. This one  _spoke_  to them, which was more unnerving than Dorian would never admit to anyone, and wielded magic no other dragon had ever used against them, but it wasn't anywhere near approaching invincibility. And Cullen didn't let the fact that they were facing off against one of his gods slow him down. In fact, he fought more fiercely than Dorian had ever seen.  _He_  was feeling every moment they'd spent fighting Harofsen's forces, but Cullen moved as if he'd had a week's rest between then and now.

When the dragon was in the air, only the mages and Varric had a hope of reaching it, but when it landed, Cullen was there, darting around its legs, cutting and stabbing with his blazing sword and retreating before it could muster a kick or spin about to face him. Cassandra did her best to keep up with him, they all did, but he was too quick.

Dorian was well into his second dose of lyrium and feeling as though he was scraping the marrow out of his bones with a dull knife with every spell he conjured before the dragon began to falter. Once it did, however, he knew they had won and redoubled his efforts in a burst of stubborn determination.

Harried by a firestorm, the dragon tried and failed to get off the ground. "Well fought," came its deep, otherworldly voice. "You are worthy opponents."

"And you are free," Cullen called as he darted in toward its chest. "Never to be caged again."

He was close enough that the dragon could have impaled him on its claws. Yet as he passed between its legs, it made no move to defend itself. Instead, it spoke a final time and although he could hear it, Dorian knew that its words were for no one but Cullen. "A gift, warrior."

Cullen's sword slid into its chest, piercing scales as easily as if they were nothing more than parchment. Blood poured from the wound as he pulled the sword out; had he not quickly sidestepped it, he would have been drenched in it. A moment later, the dragon shuddered and crumpled, unmoving, onto the ice.

"Is it dead?" Mahanon called, picking his way across the jagged, broken chunks of ice the battle had created.

"Aye," Cullen returned. "Hakkon is free."

Scout Harding emerged from wherever she'd been concealing herself during the fight and approached Mahanon. They spoke for a bit about the dragon, Ameridan, and the Avvar, but as none of it applied to him, Dorian tuned them out and made his way to Cullen's side near the dragon. There were streaks of blood mixed in with the mud and warpaint, but Dorian could see no obvious wounds on Cullen's body and he didn't carry himself as if he was favoring an injury. But the fighting both in the fortress and out here on the ice had been too intense to keep an eye on him and Cullen still had a tendency to brush aside any injuries that he sustained.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly, needing to hear confirmation regardless of what his eyes were telling him.

"Aye." Cullen turned toward him and met his eyes. "All is nearly as it should be."

That didn't fill him with as much confidence as he would have liked. " _Nearly?_ "

"The shadow of Corypheus still darkens the land. But these wounds inflicted here will now mend." The anger that had carried him through Harofsen's fortress was gone. Dorian could see only peace in his eyes. "And we will stop Corypheus soon enough."

_Ah, there it is. There's the relentless optimism no one has missed._ But Dorian found himself smiling just the same. It eased something inside him to see Cullen getting back to normal. "I'm glad one of us has such faith in our abilities."

Cullen gestured toward the fallen dragon. "We have passed Hakkon's test. He will guide us to victory."

"How do—" Just for an instant, Dorian thought his eyes were deceiving him. Some trick of the light from the stars reflecting on a shard of ice, perhaps, or a fire in the distance. But the dragon's body  _was_ glowing, faintly at first and then brighter and brighter until he had to squint against the glare. " _Cullen_."

The hiss of warning wasn't necessary, Cullen was already facing it. But where Dorian was preparing for yet one more defensive spell, Cullen merely raised his fist to his chest in that same salute he'd given to the Lady of the Skies when she had appeared before them. The light coalesced into something that looked like a dragon and hovered there in front of them for a moment, before bursting into such radiance that it was impossible to keep looking at it. When the light faded, it was gone.

A residual glow seemed to be fading from around Cullen as well, but when Dorian hurriedly blinked his eyes, it was gone. He closed his eyes, held them shut for a few heartbeats, and opened them again. The glow was well and truly gone. Cullen was watching him, an eyebrow arched in curious inquiry.

_A real trick of the light this time_ , Dorian thought, exhaling in relief.  _Nothing to be concerned about._  As laden with mystical mumbo-jumbo as their life had become, one could never be too careful that they weren't getting caught up in more of it. To Cullen's unspoken question, he shook his head: no, nothing was wrong.

"Come." Nodding toward the Inquisitor, who had finished his conversation with Harding and was moving toward the shore with Cassandra and Varric, Cullen offered Dorian his hand. "We must tell the thane what has happened."

And Dorian, without hesitation, took it.

* * *

When the Inquisitor's party finally returned from the Frostback Basin, they did not return alone. Lumbering at the side of Cullen's still grotesquely unpleasant looking undead horse came Storvacker, who much like Selkor, had chosen to leave the hold in order to accompany Cullen and make way for the next hold-beast to take her place. The official word from Thane Sun-Hair was that Storvacker wanted to join the Inquisition to protect Thedas and prevent the sky from being torn asunder again. But as he had watched the bear fall in with Cullen and his menagerie of possessed animals, Dorian had seen through the polite lie.

Like everyone else in the blasted world, Storvacker wanted to be with Cullen.

"If it's fighting you want to do," Mahanon was saying to her as they crossed the bridge, as if he were talking to a human or an elf instead of a bloody  _bear_. "I'll introduce you to Carver, the commander of our army. He'll help you find a place that suits you."

Impolite though it was to stare, Dorian couldn't help himself. It was morbidly fascinating watching someone who once would have balked at trying to reason with an animal carrying on a one-sided conversation with one like it was the most normal thing in the world.  _He's spent too much time around Cullen. That's the only explanation._

"It was that bloody ram," he heard Varric mutter beside him, and it was so apropos to nothing that he shot him a look.

"I beg you pardon?"

"Before your time, Sparkler." Dorian tried not to roll his eyes at the nickname and failed miserably. "Fellow down in Redcliffe lost a ram.Called him Lord Woolsey. Asked the Inquisitor to find him and talk him into returning home."

The sad thing was, Dorian could see Mahanon agreeing to it too easily. The poor man agreed to anything, regardless of how asinine the request was or how busy he was doing infinitely more important tasks. It would be just like him to tramp halfway across the world in search of an animal that could be replaced for a handful of coins and try to persuade it to go home.

"Guess once he started talking to them, he couldn't stop," Varric was saying with mock pity. "Happens to the best of them."

If Varric had that many thoughts about something so trivial, it could only mean one thing. He was going to work it into one of his books.  _Better the Inquisitor than me. Everybody in Tevinter already thinks I'm strange enough. They needn't be exposed to Varric's_ unique  _perspective._  No one did. It was a cruel fate Dorian would only wish on his most hated of enemies.

There was a crowd waiting for them when they arrived in the courtyard. Most were simply curious onlookers, eager to get a glimpse of the Inquisitor and his companions.  _Or Cullen_ , Dorian thought with wry amusement. But then he noticed all of the advisors standing there as well and his skin prickled with unease. Of course, it was possible that they were just as eager for news as everyone else, but between her birds and her people, Leliana's scout network was second to none. Any questions the three of them had could have surely been answered long before they returned.

The likelihood of that suspicion being accurate grew as Mahanon dismounted and they moved forward to greet him. Within three minutes, he was whisked into the fortress without a word of explanation, leaving the rest of them to answer everybody's questions. And because the majority of those were about the bear, Dorian referred them to Cullen and took off to their quarters as quickly as possible. There was a bath practically screaming his name and he didn't want to be waylaid by some catastrophe before he was able to scrub weeks of mountain and wilderness from his skin.

Perhaps the Maker decided that he deserved a break, because it wasn't until  _after_  he pulled on a fresh change of clothes that a great, thunderous boom shook the room and a sickly green light flooded in through the window. Turning toward it in horror, Dorian could only watch, utterly speechless, as the sky tore itself apart and the Breach reopened.

After that, things happened so quickly that Dorian remembered them more as fragmented moments than linear time.

Frantically pulling on his armor as alarms sounded. Making sure that his pack was filled with the necessary potions for a prolonged battle as the light of the Breach threw distorted shadows on the wall. Grabbing his staff as the door flew open and admitted Cullen into the room.

"Corypheus is in the Valley of Sacred Ashes," Cullen told him. "We must go.  _Now_."

He couldn't remember the mad dash through crowded hallways back to the courtyard or the scramble to get his dracolisk saddled and ready to go. He could barely recall the faces of the others as they did the same. It was too chaotic, his thoughts overwhelmed by urgency, the noise of so many people and animals drowned out by the rapid beating of his heart. But there was one part of that hectic nightmare that stood out with vivid clarity, so perfectly preserved in his mind that he knew he'd remember for the entirety of his life.

Mahanon pulled himself up into the saddle on his great elk and turned to them. "The army has yet to return from the Arbor Wilds. Those of us who go to face Corypheus go alone and if we fall, Skyhold and Thedas fall with us."

From the back of the group came the rumble of Hawke's deep laughter, breaking the silence. "Your pep talks are worse than mine."

"No," Fenris' retorted dryly. "They aren't."

"Not sure you heard, but we're going with you," Varric called out to the Inquisitor from near Hawke's side. "So if you're trying to talk us out of it, save your breath for sending Corypheus back to the Void."

From his vantage atop the dracolisk, Dorian could see that they were all there. Mahanon's entire inner circle, outfitted for battle and in various stages of mounting their strange collection of beasts. The stablehands were out in droves, helping to calm the horses that were unnerved by the commotion and holding them still for their riders. Among them moved Felix and the Inquisitor's advisors, doing what they could to help. As he scanned the crowd, Dorian caught Felix's eye and they shared a somber, determined look that was a little too like goodbye for Dorian's liking.

With so many ways this could go wrong, he knew that the probability of it ending well for all of them was depressingly low. They could fail to defeat Corypheus and with the army still so far away, there would be precious few remaining behind to defend Skyhold when he inevitably came to destroy the Inquisition's seat of power. Or they could defeat him, but die in the process. Or  _Dorian_ could die in battle, which might still save Felix from Corypheus' wrath, but it would prevent the happy reunion that he wanted them to have when it was all over. Maybe it was selfish of him, but after a lifetime of tragedy and pain, he believed that they  _deserved_ to have that reunion.

More importantly than all that, however, was the immutable fact that no matter what happened, Felix needed to live. He'd survived the darkspawn attack that had killed his mother. He survived the blight that had nearly killed him. He damn well needed to survive a crazy darkspawn magister who was trying to kill the world, too.

Turning away, Dorian sought out Cullen and found him fussing with his undead horse's hoof. Selkor was sitting at the horse's side, ears up and eyes alert. Perched upon the horse's saddle was Falkyr, ruffling his feathers, looking as eager to fly as a bird possibly could. Against a monster and a dragon, there wasn't anything that the animals could do that the people preparing to fight him couldn't do better. But if the Inquisition fell, they  _might_  be able to buy Felix a few precious seconds to escape.

"Cullen," Dorian said gravely, pitching his voice to reach Cullen's ears despite the clamor around them.

It worked; he glanced up from his inspection of the hoof, but something in Dorian's expression must have given him pause, because he lowered the hoof to the ground and straightened instead of just calling back to him. Walking over, Cullen stopped at his side and placed a comforting hand on Dorian's thigh. "What is it?" he asked, looking up at him and searching his eyes.

"Felix." How did he explain it without  _explaining_  it? If he talked about for it too long, he knew he wasn't going to be able to keep the emotion off of his face. And projecting a calm, confident demeanor was precisely what he needed to do, not only for the sake of his pride, but for everyone else as well. Because it would be bloody difficult for his companions to have confidence in his ability to fight if he was falling apart.

As he struggled to find the words that wouldn't require him to say the ones he couldn't voice, Cullen turned and scanned the crowd for Felix. Dorian did the same, following his line of sight. He was saying something to Carver, gesturing toward the bridge. Carver's expression was uncertain and he started to shake his head, but after another comment from Felix, he nodded with what appeared to be extreme reluctance.

"Selkor." Hearing Cullen say the lion's name drew Dorian's attention back to him. He was in the midst of beckoning Selkor over to them, but it wasn't only the lion who answered. Falkyr pushed off of the saddle and, after half a dozen flaps of his great wings, alighted on Cullen's outstretched arm. "If we fall to Corypheus, there will be none to guard this fortress or the people within. The commander is capable, but I would have greater protection for our brother than a single man alone provides."

Perhaps he ought not to have been surprised that Cullen understood his concerns without needing to be explicitly told what they were, but he was nonetheless. And he probably always would be surprised by the things Cullen did without prompting and the startlingly clear empathy and understanding he possessed. Truth never to be told, Dorian wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Falkyr offered a clicking chirp in response, then took wing without further commentary. Dorian watched him circle the courtyard once, bank hard to the east, and swoop down. Because he was looking at him, Dorian saw Felix's startled exclamation as Falkyr landed on his shoulder. An instant later, surprise changed to amusement and, reaching up to stroke the eagle's head, he turned to say something to Carver, who hadn't yet appeared to have emerged from surprise.

As he looked back at Cullen, he realized that Selkor was staring at him with an expression that was far too knowing for a feline face. "If we don't make it," Dorian told him fiercely, "take as many of the bastards with you as you can."

Selkor showed his teeth, a gesture of aggression that Dorian understood was agreement, and disappeared into the crowd. A quick glance in Felix's direction a moment later revealed him at his side, Felix's hand already on his head, ruffling his fur.

"They will protect him," Cullen told him solemnly. "Come what may, they will not falter."

_And neither will you._ Reaching down, Dorian brushed his fingers over Cullen's cheek. The tip of his forefinger lingered as it traced the scar on his lip.  _So I suppose I can do no less._  "Are you ready for this dance, Dreamwalker?"

Cullen's smile was as savage as Selkor's snarl. "Always."

They rode as fast as they dared toward the Valley of Sacred Ashes, the Breach like a malevolent eye above them, watching every mile they crossed. It lit up the night nearly as bright as day and cast odd, deformed shadows across the landscape. Most of the ride was a blur to Dorian, a swirl of black and green and a confusion of emotions that rapidly swung from fear to determination like an out of control pendulum. His mind offered up scenario after horrific scenario of what awaited for them, all of which ended in despair and death, but when they reached their destination, none of them had prepared him for the reality.

As they approached him, Corypheus tore the very bones of the temple from the ground and arranged in the sky like a distorted reflection of the Black City. The amount of magic required to hold it there was astronomical, though instead of giving him hope that Corpyheus had weakened himself with the display, it merely served to underscore just how powerful he was.

Undaunted, Mahanon led them forward, ignoring his taunts as completely as he ignored the blighted dragon that was summoned forth again to stop them. Mythal's dragon came to their aid as she had promised and engaged it, distracting it away from them as they advanced on Corypheus.

Although they substantially outnumbered him, the battle was as chaotic and desperate as any of the others. He seemed to be everywhere, he never tired, and the magic he wielded against them was deadly. Dorian could not guess at how long they fought. Everything was a jumble of crackling red energy, dark shadows, the screams of dragons and the rain of hot blood down upon them when one scored a hit against the other, running up and down treacherously broken stairs, and trying to keep himself and his companions alive. Fire, lightning, barriers, a dash of healing when he caught sight of an injury—he did it all, pushing himself to be in two or three or four places at once.

When their dragon fell and the blighted monstrosity turned its attention to them, he set it on fire again and again until Mahanon got in underneath it and slit its throat. And kept cutting until he was  _sure_  it was dead this time. The death of the dragon must have dealt a blow to Corypheus too, for the unsteady ground shuddered and the whole blasted mockery of the Black City went careening down out of the sky.

How any of them survived the crash, Dorian doubted he would ever know. Dumb luck. The barriers he and the other mages tried to erect around them. The Maker's intervention. Cullen's ever present gods. It could've been any of it. Perhaps it was all of it. Because there was movement from all directions and everyone was accounted for. Everyone, that was, except Mahanon.

He was pushing himself to his feet, feeling more keenly the weight of his years and a month's worth of aches and pains than he'd ever done before, when the sky flared with incandescence and for the second time, the Breach closed. Someone, he hoped it was Corypheus, was screaming, but he was too far away to reach the source of it if it proved to be the Inquisitor. Still, he tried. All of them tried. And just as they were nearing the stairs to take them back into the ruined temple, Mahanon appeared, alive and standing unaided.

They'd won. They'd fucking  _won._  The Breach was closed for good and Corpyheus had been banished into the Fade where he belonged. And none of them were dead. Dorian almost had a mind to celebrate, until he realized that Solas was among the missing and sadness lurked like a specter behind Mahanon's triumphant expression.

It wasn't until they were on their way back to Skyhold that he learned that Solas wasn't dead. That he'd just vanished after making some vague, slightly alarming comment to Mahanon.  _Good riddance_ , he wanted to tell him.  _Let him go. Forget about him. He brought you nothing but pain anyway._ Wisdom kept his mouth shut. Experience brought him uncomfortable insight and understanding that such a thing was easier said than done.

Just as before, all he could do was be there for his friend and hope that with the passage of time, his wounds would heal. Perhaps never completely. But enough.

* * *

News of Corypheus' defeat traveled quickly, as fast as ravens' wings could carry it, and by the time they returned to Skyhold, a celebration was in full swing. Casks of ale had been brought to the main hall and enterprising cooks had laid out a feast of epic proportions. Yet despite the abundance of food and alcohol, the entire fortress turned out into the courtyard to welcome them. It was all very moving and joyous, but as Dorian slid down from the infernal dracolisk, all he really wanted was a bath, sleep, Cullen, and Felix, though for far less amorous reasons than he wanted his husband.

A glass of wine and a bite to eat wouldn't be totally unwelcome, of course, but he was so exhausted that he didn't know how he was going to be able to keep his eyes open long enough to consume any of it.

"Come," Cullen murmured into his ear, as he wrapped an arm around Dorian's shoulders and led him toward the unending staircase that presumably would reach the entrance to the hall before his legs quit cooperating and dropped him to the ground. "We've plenty of time to rest later."

Too tired to stifle the yawn, Dorian let it stretch his jaw almost to breaking. "Easy for you to say," he mumbled, tempted to lean against Cullen and let him carry him, since he had such an unlimited well of energy. "You're never tired."

Cullen laughed, that smooth, velvety sound that Dorian still couldn't seem to get enough of hearing. "Is that how it seems to you?"

"Stop gloating." The insurmountable mountain of stairs was coming to an end. It seemed too good to be true. "It's not the least bit attractive."

Judging by Cullen's low chuckles, he didn't believe him and Dorian was too tired to try to convince him. He let himself be led into the hall and over to one of the huge tables laden with food. For a moment, he thought Cullen meant to sit there, which wasn't ideal given its central location to a destination that everyone present would want to visit, but just as he was getting ready to voice his opposition, Cullen steered him to the side. Sitting nearby, unnoticed by practically everyone in the vicinity, was a smaller table with only a few chairs. It was into one of those chairs that Cullen deposited him.

It was just far enough out of the way, overshadowed by the banquet tables, the multitude of ale casks, and the ugly statues that lined the interior of the hall, that Dorian thought he might be able to catch a short nap while Cullen was off doing whatever it was that had drawn him away, but he no sooner let his eyes close than he heard Cullen's voice at his side.

"Rouse yourself, husband." He sounded  _far_  too lively for a man who'd just spent the last twenty-four hours riding a horse and fighting for his life. Of a mind to be contrary and feign sleep, Dorian nevertheless cracked open one baleful eye. A goblet full of wine drifted into his field of view. "I've brought you sustenance to see you through this long night."

Resisting the call of a glass of expensive wine—Dorian could guess at the vintage from the aroma that wafted across his nose—was too impossible a task. Opening both eyes properly, he straightened up and took the goblet. There was a plate full of delicate finger foods at his elbow too; fruits, cheeses, thin slices of bread, and even thinner cuts of meat. Light fare that would still prove filling, required minimal effort to consume, and wasn't the least bit messy.

It couldn't be clearer that Cullen had gone to the trouble of choosing something he knew Dorian would prefer. On the other side of the table was a tankard of ale and a plate piled high with huge chunks of meat, some of which were still attached to the bone.

Lifting his eyes, he looked right into Cullen's fond smile. "We've some time yet before the dawn. Let us revel in our victory before we must seek our bed."

With a considerable amount of theatrical melodrama, Dorian heaved the heaviest, weariest sigh he could manage without coughing. "I suppose I can be persuaded to participate."

Cullen paused in the midst of raising his tankard to his mouth and eyed him over the rim. "Your persuasion comes after you're rested enough to endure it."

_Maker damn you_ , Dorian thought, very firmly  _not_  flustered and certainly not in any way aroused at the promise. It wouldn't do to dwell on what they might do later. Whatever tantalizing prospects awaited them and however much he might want to partake in them, he was too exhausted to actually do so. The last thing he wanted to do when he finally got Cullen alone and all to himself was fall asleep before he could even get hard enough to enjoy it.

Clearing his throat rather pointedly, he chased it with a sip of wine. Once it and his tongue were sufficiently moistened, he said archly, "Eat your dinner, you ridiculous savage, else I shall outlast  _you_."

Cullen was still laughing a few minutes later, when Felix made his way over to their table. Selkor was padding along at his side, occasionally flicking an ear or sniffing the air. And just as he came to a stop, Falkyr landed on the back of Cullen's chair with a loud rustle of feathers.

Without a word, as if he'd been aware of the eagle's approach the entire time, Cullen picked a fair-sized piece of meat from his plate and held it up between his two fingers. Falkyr ducked his head, plucked it from his fingertips, and made a noise so commanding that it clearly a demand for more.

"I suppose you haven't eaten either," Dorian remarked dryly, giving Selkor a suspicious look.

Selkor opened his mouth as if he were going to pant, though Dorian suspected that it was his equivalent of laughter. Felix needed no affectation. He laughed openly and reached down to scratch behind Selkor's ears. "Don't worry, my friend. We'll not share our secrets with anyone."

The chair beside Dorian made a low screech as Cullen pushed it away from the table with his foot. "Sit and share in our feast."

Felix grinned at him. "Me or the lion?"

"There's room enough for both of you," Dorian replied, popping a grape into his mouth and smiling benignly around it as Felix gaped at him.

"Animals at the table?  _You?_ "

Dorian indicated Cullen with a jerk of his chin. "I've grown used to it."

Snorting, Felix sat down and helped himself to some of the fruit on Dorian's plate. "Regretting that you married him yet, Cullen?"

The question earned him a gasp of mock outrage and a kick from Dorian while Cullen, laughing, shook his head. "Not even for an instant."

"There. You see?" Sniffing, Dorian looked down his perfect nose at Felix and under the cover of the table, surreptitiously offered a roll of meat to Selkor. It took everything in him not to grimace as the beast's wet tongue slobbered all over his hand, but miraculously, he weathered that trial. "Stop interfering with my marriage. Otherwise I'm going to have to nose about in yours."

"I don't have one," Felix pointed out as, ignoring Dorian's protest, he stole his wine right out of his hand. Meeting his eyes, he took a very long, pointed sip.

"Brat." Dorian took the glass back before he could finish it off and set it on the far side of the table, well away from him. "Where is Carver, anyway?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Shouldn't the two of you be celebrating?"

"I could ask the same of you," Felix returned, with a significant look toward Cullen.

Dorian looked at him too. He was in the middle of tearing meat off the bone of whatever unfortunate animal had given its life to make the impromptu feast happen, precisely how one might expect a fur-clad barbarian who lived in a hut to behave. Honestly, the performance spoke for itself. But in the interest of preventing Felix from turning on the selective stupidity, he said dryly, "Cullen was hungry."

Felix accepted that rationale with aplomb. "Some of the guards had a little too much to drink and were making nuisances of themselves down by the stables. Carver had to go shout at them." He reached for Dorian's glass again, then paused to add thoughtfully, "And probably fish Fredrik out of the watering trough. I heard something about a bet." He shook his head. "I didn't want to get involved."

Inevitably, the conversation turned to what had happened when they'd ridden out to confront Corypheus. Felix wanted details of their battle and Dorian wanted to know what had transpired at Skyhold while they'd been gone. They traded stories, Dorian and Cullen's voices weaving in and out of each other's as one added details the other had forgotten, and when Dorian caught Felix looking at him with something dangerously close to pride, he gave a mock scowl until he stopped.

Midway through Felix's shorter, dragonless tale of setting guards and a hurried bit of kissing in the corner of an empty storeroom, Carver appeared in the hall and joined them. Cullen hailed him like an old friend and for his part, Carver didn't glower quite so forbiddingly at Dorian as he bent to press his lips to Felix's temple in greeting. Dorian tried not to stare, and when he failed, at least he didn't grin  _too_  smugly at the demonstration of affection.

When their plates were empty and their drinks were gone, Cullen rose to his feet and offered Dorian his hand. Grateful for the assistance, Dorian let him pull him out of the chair.

"Calling it a night already?" Felix teased, rising as well.

"You kill the dragon  _and_  the darkspawn magister next time," Dorian grumbled, resisting an oncoming yawn.

"Deal." Felix held out his hand, and when Dorian took it, drew him into an embrace.

For a moment, his arms were tight around him. Too tight. And it was then that Dorian realized just how scared he must have been, unable to do anything but stand in the courtyard and watch him ride away to what might have been his death. Felix wasn't the type of person to belabor a subject that was now moot, but the truth of how he'd felt about it was evident now. Unable to do anything else, Dorian hugged him back just as tightly.

"We made it again," Felix whispered in his ear. "Who would have imagined it?"

Everything he wanted to say was, at the very least, too sentimental and in some cases, downright soppy. It was a  _good_  night. One of victory and celebration. It would have been unworthy of him to cast a maudlin shadow over it, however briefly.

"I did, of course," he said instead, light and irreverent. But then, with more sincerity, he continued, "We're always going to make it, Felix." They released each other at the same time, allowing Dorian to lean back and look him in the eyes. "That's what we do. Yes?"

Felix smiled, only a small upward twist of his lips yet thoroughly genuine. "Yes."

Dorian nodded in approval. "Good. Now, Cullen and I are going to sleep for  _at least_ day. Maybe more. When we emerge, I expect to hear that you—" He gave Felix a look, then glanced sideways to sweep Carver up in it as well so that they both got the message. "—did the same."

The glower that was missing earlier started to slink across Carver's face, but Felix only slapped him on the arm. "Oh, get out of here."

They made their escape, leaving Selkor and Falkyr behind to continue scavenging scraps of food from the remaining revelers. Near the door that would take them to their wing of the fortress, they encountered Mahanon, nursing a glass of wine and watching over the crowd. He asked after them and if they needed anything, but when Dorian turned it back on him, he waved them away.

"Go on," he said, giving them a tired smile. "Get some rest. There's nothing so important now that it can't wait until we've had some time to recover from saving the world."

_What about you?_  Dorian wanted to ask, concern for his friend preventing him from blithely sauntering off.  _What are you going to do now? Who's going to be there for you tonight?_

Out of all of them, Mahanon was probably the most exhausted. He'd been the one to carry the Inquisition this far. His choices had affected the world in ways they could not yet fully know. His decisions had changed the fates of countless people. Upon his shoulders had lain the sole responsibility to close the Breach and all of the rifts that it had spawned. And now that it was over, who stood with him? Who supported him? It should have been Solas,  _would_  have been Solas, had that Maker-forsaken bastard not broken his heart and then disappeared without a word.

But Dorian couldn't force a conversation that Mahanon didn't want to have. He wasn't that cruel. All he could do was stand there, studying him, trying to make sure that that dismissal was genuine and not concealing a cry for help. Mahanon must have figured it out, because he gave him another smile, there and gone in a flash, and nodded.

"I'm  _fine_ , Dorian. Thank you." He tipped his head toward Cullen. "Now get out of here. That's an order."

They made it the rest of the way to their quarters without interruption. Most of the corridors were empty, either because those who might have used them were still back at the great hall celebrating or because they had celebrated themselves into unconsciousness. Save for the sound of their boots against the stone floor, Dorian could hear no other noises emanating from any of the rooms around them.

A wave of exhaustion swept over him when he stepped into their chambers, so strong that the prospect of fighting his way out of the many buckles of his clothes was akin to physical pain. But he wasn't going to sleep in his clothes. They were dirty, sweaty, and not suited for extended wear. So with fingers that felt thicker and slower than usual, he shoved off his cloak, let it fall uncaring to the floor, and began the struggle with his tunic.

He left a trail of garments as he made his painstaking way to the bed and he didn't give a damn. Later, after he'd slept for a dozen hours or so, he could tidy up. A glance in Cullen's direction found him already stripped down to nothing and his clothes in a much neater, albeit furry, pile near the door.  _That was a mistake,_ Dorian realized dully, as he found himself pausing mid-battle with his boots to watch Cullen's bare ass move to the balcony. He stood there uselessly, watching Cullen watch something in the sky for Maker knew how long, practically falling asleep on his feet.

"Dorian," Cullen's voice called him out of his stupor. Blinking back sleep for a few more minutes, Dorian focused on him. He was glancing at him over his shoulder and beckoning him to join him. "Come here."

Forcing his feet to start moving, Dorian dragged himself to Cullen's side. Because there was no one to see them and at that point, he didn't care if anyone did, he leaned heavily against him. "What?"

Cullen's arm went around him in a gesture that could've been affectionate or might have been a practical one to take his weight. Dorian didn't care to analyze it. "Look up there."

Wishing they could just get on with it, Dorian did as he was asked. Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, and high above them, the strange scar left by the Breach scintillated with a rainbow's worth of colors. It was a remarkably beautiful sight, even to a man as half-asleep on his feet as Dorian was.

"Do you think it'll be there tomorrow?" Dorian mused out loud.

Eschewing words, Cullen hummed a note of assent.

Dorian watched the multi-colored light twist and turn like it was caught in an odd dance for another moment, then took a deep breath and straightened up. "Then let's stare at it some more tomorrow. I'm exhausted and if I stand here another minute, I'm going to fall asleep on my feet."

It wasn't an empty threat, either. Dorian barely made it through getting his boots off and burrowing underneath the blankets before his eyes fell closed. He didn't try to fight in anymore. He was dimly aware of Cullen joining him: the shifting of the mattress underneath him, the rustle of the furs, the heat of Cullen's skin as he stretched out against him, and the weight of his arm around his waist.  _Perfect_ , he thought.

The last thing he felt, as sleep began pulling him down into the comfortable darkness, was Cullen's lips brushing against his cheek.

* * *

To say that Dorian's life settled into endless days of indolence and hedonistic excess would be an exaggeration of magisterial proportions. He  _did_  sleep an entire day away following Corypheus' defeat, and when he finally awoke, he was in absolutely no hurry to get out of bed and do things more productive than lay about dozing for a few hours. And he and Cullen  _did_  spend a few days alone, away from the continued hustle and bustle of the Inquisition. But after a week of recuperating both mind and body from the stress of constant travel, battle, and having the end of the world looming—sometimes quite literally—over his head, he had to get on with his life.

Of course, that posed a conundrum all its own that he had yet to sort out.

He was standing on the battlements looking out over the training field, where Cullen was rigorously putting Carver and a group of his best soldiers through their paces, when Felix came up beside him and settled in to watch the show as well. They stood in companionable silence for a time, only breaking it to offer commentary when someone performed an impressive maneuver or, in Felix's case, when Carver got too warm from his exertion and took off his tunic. But eventually, as all things do, the idle comments took a serious turn.

"What will you do now?"

Dorian glanced over at him, eyebrow rising, but Felix was still looking down at the field and didn't meet his eyes. "Hm?"

"Will you stay here in Skyhold for a while?" Felix clarified, without looking at him. "Or do you plan to return to Tevinter? Or perhaps go back to Cullen's hold?"

_Ah. I see._  It was a question he'd been asking himself for months, though the frequency of those questions increased exponentially once Corypheus had been disposed of and Thedas was no longer under such a dire threat. He hadn't yet found an answer. At least, not one to which he was willing to consciously commit.

"I..." A casual reply didn't come readily to his tongue.  _Damn it all._ He wasn't prepared for this conversation, but it was one that needed to be had, and he doubted that he would ever truly be ready to have it. Frowning, he chewed absently on the inside of his lower lip as he tried to round up words that might accurately convey his current feelings on the matter. "I know that I must return to Tevinter. It will not change unless someone  _makes_ it change, and if I've learned anything from my time here, it's that it must be done sooner than later. But I find myself a bit..."  _Say it. He won't judge you for it._ "...reluctant, I suppose, to leave Skyhold. I've something of a place here."

It was easier than saying that he'd found a  _home_  in Skyhold and with the Inquisition. And it was infinitely easier than admitting that after having left the last two places he'd called home, abandoning a third verged on intolerably painful.

Felix looked at him and it was Dorian's turn to pretend that he was so enraptured by the display below that he didn't notice. It wasn't even that much of a lie. "You'll always have a place here," he said softly, with such conviction that it almost made Dorian believe it. "And Tevinter isn't  _so_ far away." Then, proving that Cullen wasn't the only one who knew him well enough to guess at the things he left unspoken, he added, "Besides, I can come with you. You can do a lot things, Dorian, but Tevinter's too stubborn even for you. You won't be able to do it alone."

As selfish as he was, Dorian wasn't so selfish that he'd ever attempt to guilt Felix into doing anything. Felix was happy there. He'd flourished, both professionally and personally. Due to his unfortunate lack of magical skill, he was looked upon with pity in Tevinter, like he'd been born with a grotesque disfigurement. Not his fault, of course, but devastating to his parents and his potential success. But the Inquisition valued his intellect and his abilities. No one pitied him for anything save, perhaps, his place of birth. And he'd found a partner for whom he obviously cared a great deal—Maker only knew why—that he never would have had the freedom to find in Tevinter.

Without Felix, Tevinter would never truly be home again. Yet drawing him back out of feelings of obligation and loyalty would steal his life away as surely as the darkspawn had tried to do.

Dorian slanted a glance his way, not trusting himself to look at him directly lest Felix see the truth of just how much he wanted him by his side in his eyes. "What about Carver?"

Felix chuckled as if he'd just told an entertaining joke. "I didn't say that I'd stay there forever. I  _can_  travel, you know. I'm rather fond of it." He shrugged carelessly. "And Carver can accompany me whenever he wants."

The image that brought to his mind was so ludicrous that his attempt to avoid eye contact was forgotten. "You'd bring a Fereldan templar to Tevinter? Voluntarily?"

" _Former_  templar," Felix stressed, before snorting with wry amusement. "You're one to talk. What about Cullen? Would you leave him here and move back to Minrathous as if you'd never gotten married?"

"No, of course not." Leaving Cullen was the  _last_  thing he wanted to do. Moreover, it was the last thing he  _would_  do. But there were complications with bringing an Avvar to Tevinter that couldn't be brushed under the carpet simply because he wanted to do it. Not the least of which was because Cullen's desires would have to be taken in consideration too, and Dorian wasn't certain that he would agree to live in the homeland of his peoples' enemies. "I... Well, I'm not sure how we'd handle the logistics of any of it, but I'm certain that we'll figure it out when the time comes."

And that too was part of the reason he'd been putting off making a decision. Living without Cullen was unthinkable. Yet so too was doing nothing about Tevinter. He couldn't very well usher his people into a new age of thinking and mores if he was living halfway across the world.

The look Felix was giving him was far too knowing for comfort. "Have you spoken about any of this with him?" From the tone of his voice, he already knew the answer.

"Not as yet," Dorian admitted grudgingly, nonchalantly looking back down at the field.

Felix sighed, a mixture of weariness, exasperation, and fondness. "Perhaps you ought to start there, instead of wasting so much time worrying about what he  _might_  say."

Crossing his arms atop the stone ledge in front of him, Dorian huffed. "Perhaps you ought to mind your own business."

Laughing, Felix leaned into his shoulder. "If I did that, no one would worry about yours. You included."

That was probably true. Still, it wouldn't do to come right out and say as much. "That's entirely untrue and you know it."

"Uh huh." Felix leaned against the stone, though his shoulder remained pressed against Dorian's in a gesture of camaraderie. "You don't have to make the decision right now. You repaired a hole in the sky and sent one of the Magisters Sidereal back to the Fade. You've earned some time to yourself. Take it. Relax. Tevinter's problems will be waiting for you when you're ready to deal with them."

_Isn't that the truth?_  Despite the gravity of the issue, Dorian found himself chuckling. "Yes. Of course. You're right."

"I'll always right," Felix returned lightly, sounding extraordinarily full of himself. "And talk to Cullen already. You'll be glad you did."

* * *

Dorian meant to speak about it with Cullen. Truly he did. He simply couldn't find the right moment to do it. Certainly he could have interjected it into any of their conversations, but the possibility that it might dampen an otherwise happy or amorous moment always made him decide against such a course of action. But because there was still ample time, he wasn't unduly bothered by it.

Until time unexpectedly ran out.

It was as beautiful a spring morning as mornings got in the Frostbacks and he was puttering about the garden, enjoying the warmth of the sun, when one of Leliana's scouts delivered a letter to him. The seal was one of House Tilani and when he opened it, eager for news from his friend, he discovered that it wasn't some intriguingly scandalous gossip Maevaris wished to share with him but a request that he return home and aid her in finding like-minded individuals who might be willing to join their cause of reformation.

He could discern no sense of urgency to the letter or any of the subtle attempts at guilting him into agreement that his family would have employed. There would be no consequences if he said no. But it was the sort of work he  _wanted_  to do, and if they were serious about their intention to bring about social and political change—they were—then it was also work that he  _needed_ to be doing. Plus, it wasn't fair to dump all of the actual work on Maevaris and merely claim the credit for its success. Provided, of course, that it did succeed.

And it  _had_  to succeed.

No, he was going to have to accept it, he decided, after spending the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon sitting on the uncomfortable bench near the elfroot and agonizing over his options. And once he made that decision, he had to acknowledge the difficult consequences that came with it.

The first person he told was Felix. Of everyone he knew, only his oldest friend would understand the full ramifications of his choices and why he had to make the one that he did. As soon as he got him alone, he showed him the letter and told him of his decision. Reading the letter, Felix's expression was thoughtful and serious. But as he listened to Dorian explain himself, it grew less thoughtful and more perturbed.

"You think I'm making the wrong decision, don't you?" Dorian asked, after Felix's frown grew so deep it was almost a grimace.

Sighing, he shook his head. "No."

"But?"

Felix studied him closely. "Are you certain this is what you want to do?"

It was Dorian's turn to frown. "Of course I don't  _want_  to do it. But Felix, if this movement is to be successful, we must do it right. I was willing to sacrifice my life to save Thedas. How can I then not be willing to sacrifice a few months' happiness to begin saving Tevinter?"

There wasn't any other answer to that question than the obvious and they both knew it.

"I know," Felix said softly. "What does Cullen think about it?"

_Damn it._ Dorian didn't flinch only by virtue of having been caught so many times in embarrassing situations that he was practically desensitized to overt displays of shame. _I should have known he'd ask._  "I, ah, haven't told him yet."

"Oh, for Andraste's sake!" Felix exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "Dorian Pavus, you go tell him right now or so help me..." He let the threat trail off into menacing silence.

Quickly raising his hands in surrender, Dorian nodded and took a step backward away from him. "All right, all right, I'm going."

Unbeknownst to Felix, however, he didn't go straight to Cullen like he knew that he should have done. Instead, he hunted down Mahanon to tell him of his plans.  _After all_ , he rationalized to himself, _it would be exceedingly stupid to make all of these plans and upset Cullen for nothing_.

Because Cullen  _was_  going to be upset. No matter how carefully he tried to hide it or how understanding he might profess to be, Dorian knew him well enough to know that he wasn't going to like the plan at all. And he couldn't blame him for that.  _He_  didn't like it either. In fact, he hated it, just like he hated the reality of Tevinter that was forcing him to make the decision in the first place.

"Don't be silly," Mahanon said, after he'd finished laying out the problem and his imperfect solution. "Of course it's all right. Skyhold is as much your home as it mine. We'll get on as well as we can while you're gone." His tone grew somber. "Though you must promise that you'll return as soon as you can. I'd prefer not to be without my best friend for too long."

Feeling slightly better about the whole mess, Dorian smiled. "Just promise you won't steal my husband while I'm gone and you have yourself a deal."

Mahanon's mouth twisted into a grimace. "You drive a hard bargain, but I'll do my best."

"Don't let Felix take him either," Dorian added severely. "One bloody Fereldan is enough for him."

Laughing, Mahanon waved his hands in denial. “Never. You have my solemn promise.” Sobering slightly, he asked, “When is it you mean to leave?”

“As soon as possible.” Now that he’d made the decision, Dorian knew that he needed to get on with it immediately. Otherwise his reluctance to leave would encourage him to put it off for another day. And another. And  _just one more day_. Until he never left at all. “Tomorrow morning, if you’ve no objections.”

“Only selfish ones,” Mahanon assured him. “I’ll send word to Dennet to have your dracolisk ready at dawn.”

It was well into evening by the time he returned to his quarters, but the conversations he'd had with his friends had been worth the time they'd taken. He still wasn't thrilled about traveling to Tevinter alone or the months he would have to spend there without Cullen at his side, but he knew that having him there would be a distraction. Not just to him personally, though he certainly would be that, but also to the endeavor he and Maevaris were undertaking.

Those who would oppose them, and there would be plenty of opposition from magisters who feared that a changing attitude would result in a lessening of their power and prestige, would use Cullen against them. Unfairly, of course. Wrongly, to be sure. But it would still happen and Tevinter—the way it ought to be, not what selfish blood magic wielding magisters had made of it—could not afford it. Not with the Qunari at their backs and discord in their ranks.

The sacrifice was necessary. But it would be a temporary one. Their separation would last only as long as it took to convince like-minded magisters that they and their intentions were legitimate. Once that happened, once they realized that the pariah of House Pavus was serious and dependable, his personal life would no longer be a weapon with which their adversaries could threaten the movement.

Dorian knew that he was doing the right thing. He felt that conviction deep in his bones. But he was too nervous about Cullen's reaction to sit down and wait for him to get back from wherever he was. To pass the time, he paced. Round and round their chambers he went, half wishing he'd thought to procure a bottle of wine to get him through the worst of it.

He was walking back and forth in front of the window, occasionally looking outside as if he might be able to spot Cullen and figure out how soon he would arrive, when the door opened and Cullen walked in. Stopping mid-step, Dorian turned to face him and all of his rehearsed lines disappeared as his mind went blank. Floundering, he opened his mouth, not quite certain what he meant to say and praying to anything that might be listening that he wasn't going to blurt out something foolish, when Cullen intervened.

"What is it?" he asked in concern, seeing Maker only knew what in Dorian's expression and hurrying across the room.

Put like that, there was nothing he could do but respond with the truth. "I need to go back to Tevinter."

"Aye." Without hesitation, Cullen changed direction toward the chest where they kept most of their belongings. "I'll make ready for the journey."

Dorian's stomach twisted with guilt-ridden anxiety. "No, Cullen." After such an unquestioning show of support, it felt like he was betraying him. "Just me."

Cullen stopped and turned to face him, confusion plain on his face.

"It isn't permanent," Dorian said in a rush, taking a few steps toward him. "Just a few weeks. I haven't been back for nearly three years. And after what happened with the Venatori, I need to speak with some friends in the magisterium. I need to know what's going on and make sure nothing like them ever forms again." He exhaled hard. "And I need to do it alone."

"Why?" Cullen's voice and expression were so neutral that in that moment, Dorian couldn't begin to hazard a guess at what he was thinking.

"It's... It's complicated." He'd composed so many speeches while he'd been waiting for Cullen to return to their chambers, but everything was happening so fast that they were of no use to him. He couldn't even remember most of them. "My standing in Tevinter is very shaky. My reputation when I left was rather poor. That's putting it mildly. If I return with a man at my side, to say nothing of him being a southern barbarian, no one will take me seriously. And I need them to—"

Cullen's voice was very soft when he interrupted, but Dorian heard it just the same. "You are ashamed of me."

"No," Dorian said firmly. "Not at all. But love is a weakness in Tevinter." Cullen was looking at him most peculiarly, as if he could see straight through him into his very soul. "You will be a weakness and I cannot afford to—"

And just like that, Cullen’s expression iced over and became as hard as stone.

_Fuck._ Too late, Dorian realized what he'd said. On its own, it was bad enough. But he hadn't said it just anyone. He'd said it to Cullen. A man whose entire life and culture was based around strength. And he’d just called him a weakness.

"No, Cullen, wait." Cullen was already withdrawing from him, emotionally and worse, physically. He was nearly back at the door before the rest of Dorian's protest tripped and stumbled its way out of his mouth. "That isn't what I meant!"

Cullen straightened up, looking every inch the thane he used to be, regal and proud, and said formally, with no emotion in his voice, "Safe journey, Dorian Pavus."

"Cullen!" Dorian shouted, hearing the shrill note of panic in his voice and for once not caring how it reflected on him.

But Cullen was already gone, and when Dorian reached the door and yanked it open, the hallway beyond it was empty. It was impossible to tell which way he’d went, and as big as Skyhold was, if he was determined to avoid him, Dorian wasn't going to be able to find him. He stood there at the doorway, breathing much too hard for far too long. Eventually, he stepped back inside and let it close.

_He'll be back when his temper cools off_ , Dorian tried to reassure himself.  _He has to sleep. And when he comes back, I'll apologize and explain better and everything will be fine._ It wasn't the first time they'd argued. Even before he'd realized that Cullen was courting him, they'd argued, and after they'd married, they still had the occasional disagreement. And they'd dealt with each of them. Sometimes by going their separate ways for a few hours until their tempers cooled. Sometimes by shouting at each other until one or the other pointed out how foolish they were being and they reconciled. But they'd never gone to bed angry at each other.

Cullen would be back in a little while. He was sure of it.

In an effort to keep busy, Dorian began packing his things for the journey. He didn't want to be in the middle of it when Cullen returned and after getting into an argument because he was leaving, he definitely didn't want to do it in  _front_  of him. Better to just get it done so that he could focus on the infinitely more important matter of apologizing and making amends for the damage he'd so carelessly caused.

Except Cullen didn't come back. Dorian waited, refusing to retire for the night before speaking with him again, but the door never opened. Midnight came and went and still there was no sign of him. Nor was there any message from a scout saying that he needed to be alone. He simply never came back and Dorian, sick to his stomach, could do nothing but pace the length and breadth of the room and hope in vain.

As dawn began lighting the darkness beyond the windows, Dorian was forced to admit that Cullen wasn't coming back before his departure. And because he'd left so abruptly, Dorian hadn't been able to tell him that he  _was_  leaving. Somehow, knowing that Cullen was going to return only to find him gone made him feel worse than the whole sorry fiasco already did.

Digging up a quill, some ink, and a piece of parchment, Dorian sat down and wrote him a note apologizing for what he'd done, reassuring him that  _he_ didn't think Cullen was a weakness, explaining in terms far better thought out why he had to make this first journey home alone, apologizing for leaving, and assuring him that he would write often during the short time he was away. When he was finished, he read over it with a critical eye for further unintended insult, folded it up, and after writing Cullen's name on the front of it, left it in a prominent position on his pillow so that he wouldn't miss it when he finally returned to the room.

He gathered up his bags, trying to ignore the heaviness in his heart and the uncomfortable knot in his stomach, and made his way down to the courtyard. Along the way, it occurred to him that he might pass Cullen in one of the hallways or down by the gates. That hope buoyed his steps through hallways devoid of the one face he most wanted to see until he was stepping out into the dawn. It was then, as he got his first glimpse of the courtyard and the gates beyond, that he realized Cullen wasn't there.

Mahanon was. And Felix was standing at his side. But neither Cullen nor the animals who'd become as much a part of Dorian's life as his husband were present.

And he knew they weren't going to be.

His throat was thick as he said his goodbyes, and to their sideways glances and worried questions about Cullen’s absence, Dorian could only say, "I don't know." He didn't trust himself to say anything else.

"I'll talk to him," Felix assured him as he gave him a hug goodbye. "Whatever happened, we'll get it straightened out."

And when Mahanon embraced him, he whispered in Dorian's ear, "I fixed everything else. I can fix this too."

It felt like his feet were made of lead as he hauled himself up into the dracolisk's saddle.  _I shouldn't go. I should stay. I should wait for Cullen to get back so that I can talk to him. After that, after we've talked,_ then _I can leave._

As he sat there, torn between his heart and his homeland, Felix walked over and touched his leg. "Dorian." Only when Dorian begrudgingly met his eyes did he continue. "Go. Do what you were born to do. Everything will be fine. I promise."

Dorian llanced at Mahanon, who nodded as if he'd heard what Felix had just said. With his big elf ears, perhaps he had. He turned his attention to Felix, and after an intense, meaningful look, Felix nodded as well.

"Take care of him," Dorian said quietly. "And yourselves."

Never one to enjoy goodbyes, he nudged his heel into the dracolisk's side to get it moving. Although he tried not to look, he still found himself scanning the courtyard as he crossed it and passed through the gates. Cullen wasn't there. No one called his name as the dracolisk started across the bridge toward the path that would take him back to Tevinter.

And resolutely, he didn't look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That ending, right? I know. And if I didn't, [grumpyowls](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyowls) has told me about it. At length. :)
> 
> Don't worry. I've got one more novel-length story planned for this series that will tie up the loose ends and explain why this ending was necessary. 
> 
> I don't have a solid timeframe for when to expect the final installment. I'm going to finish up the other WIPs I've got posted on here and finish some others that I've been working on before I tackle D&F3. So unless inspiration really grabs me and I write super fast, I don't expect D&F3 to be done until sometime in 2019.
> 
> I also plan to do a collection of short stories that take place in the D&F universe, either about Cullen and/or Dorian specifically, or about some of the other characters and things that have happened. I'll be writing those sporadically, as inspiration or request (I've got two already!) takes me.
> 
> As always, I can be found on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ereliswrites) & [Tumblr](http://griffonfarm.tumblr.com). Thanks for reading!


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